STARVED  ROCK 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  LTD. 

TORONTO 


STARVED  ROCK 


BY 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

Author  of  "Spoon  River  Anthology,"  "Songs  and 

Satires,"  "The  Great  Valley,"  "Toward 

the  Gulf,"  etc. 


JI3eto  gotk 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1920 

All  riyhti  regerved 


d«*^-\    V/r- 


COPTBIOHT,  1919 

BT  THE  MACM1LLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  October,  1919 


Certain  of  these  poems  first  appeared  in  Rcedy's  Mirror, 
Poetry,  The  Cosmopolitan,  The  Yale  Review  and  The 
New  York  Sum. 


CONTENTS 


PACE 

STARVED  ROCK I 

HYMN  TO  THE  DEAD 5 

CREATION 10 

THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE 13 

TYRANNOSAURUS :    OR  BURNING  LETTERS  16 

LORD  BYRON  TO  DOCTOR  POLIDORI 22 

THE  FOLDING  MIRROR 29 

A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY 33 

WILD  BIRDS 34 

A  LADY 36 

THE  NEGRO  WARD 40 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 44 

FOR  A  PLAY 47 

CHICAGO 49 

THE  WEDDING  FEAST 54 

BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON         .        .        .        .        .        .58 

THE  DREAM  OF  TASSO 60 

THE  CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN 69 

THE  LAMENT  OF  SOPHONIA 77 

AT  DECAPOLIS 79 

WINGED  VICTORY 83 

OH  You  SABBATARIANS! 88 

PALLAS  ATHENE 90 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AT  SAGAMORE  HILL 95 

To  ROBERT  NICHOLS 101 

BONNYBELL:   THE  BUTTERFLY 103 

HYMN  TO  AGNI 109 

EPITAPH  FOR  Us in 

BOTTICELLI  TO  SIMONETTA 114 

FLOWER  IN  THE  GARDEN 115 

INEXORABLE  DEITIES 117 

ARIELLE 119 

SOUNDS  OUT  OF  SORROW 121 

MOURNIN'  FOR  RELIGION 122 

THYAMIS 124 

I  SHALL  Go  DOWN  INTO  THIS  LAND 126 

SPRING  LAKE 128 

THE  BARBER  OF  SEPO 138 

THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  Now 145 

NEL  MEZZO  DEL  CAMMIN 156 

THE  OAK  TREE 160 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 162 

WASHINGTON  HOSPITAL 163 

NEITHER  FAITH  NOR  BEAUTY  CAN  REMAIN    ....  170 


Vill 


STARVED  ROCK 

As  a  soul  from  whom  companionships  subside 

The  meaningless  and  onsweeping  tide 

Of  the  river  hastening,  as  it  would  disown 

Old  ways  and  places,  left  this  stone 

Of  sand  above  the  valley,  to  look  down 

Miles  of  the  valley,  hamlet,  village,  town. 

*  *  *  *  * 

It  is  a  head-gear  of  a  chief  whose  head, 

Down  from  the  implacable  brow, 

Waiting  is  held  below 

The  waters,  feather  decked 

With  blossoms  blue  and  red, 

With  ferns  and  vines ; 

Hiding  beneath  the  waters,  head  erect, 

His  savage  eyes  and  treacherous  designs. 

***** 

It  is  a  musing  memory  and  memorial 

Of  geologic  ages 

Before  the  Hoods  began  to  fall ; 

The  cenotaph  of  sorrows,  pilgrimages 

Of  Marquette  and  LaSalle. 

The  eagles  and  the  Indians  left  it  here 

In  solitude,  blown  clean 

to 


STARVED  ROCK 

Of  kindred  things :  as  an  oak  whose  leaves  are  sere 
Fly  over  the  valley  when  the  winds  are  keen, 
And  nestle  where  the  earth  receives 
Another  generation  of  exhausted  leaves. 

•  *  *  *  • 

Fatigued  with  age  its  sleepless  eyes  look  over 

Fenced  fields  of  corn  and  wheat, 

Barley  and  clover. 

The  lowered  pulses  of  the  river  beat 

Invisibly  by  shores  that  stray 

In  progress  and  retreat 

Past  Utica  and  Ottawa, 

And  past  the  meadow  where  the  Illini 

Shouted  and  danced  under  the  autumn  moon, 

When  toddlers  and  papooses  gave  a  cry, 

And  dogs  were  barking  for  the  boon 

Of  the  hunter  home  again  to  clamorous  tents 

Smoking  beneath  the  evening's  copper  sky. 

Later  the  remnant  of  the  Illini 

Climbed  up  this  Rock,  to  die 

Of  hunger,  thirst,  or  down  its  sheer  ascents 

Rushed  on  the  spears  of  Pottawatomies, 

And  found  the  peace 

Where  thirst  and  hunger  are  unknown. 

***** 

This  is  the  tragic  and  the  fateful  stone 

Le  Rocher  or  Starved  Rock, 

A  symbol  and  a  paradigm, 

A  sphinx  of  elegy  and  battle  hymn, 


STARVED  ROCK 

Whose  lips  unlock 

Life's  secret,  which  is  vanishment,  defeat, 

In  epic  dirges  for  the  races 

That  pass  and  leave  no  traces 

Before  new  generations  driven  in  the  blast 

Of  Time  and  Nature  blowing  round  its  head. 

Renewing  in  the  Present  what  the  Past 

Knew  wholly,  or  in  part,  so  to  repeat 

Warfare,  extermination,  old  things  dead 

But  brought  to  life  again 

In  Life's  immortal  pain. 


What  Destinies  confer, 

And  laughing  mock 

LaSalle,  his  dreamings  stir 

To  wander  here,  depart 

The  fortress  of  Creve  Coeur, 

Of  broken  heart, 

For  this  fort  of  Starved  Rock? 

After  the  heart  is  broken  then  the  cliff 

Where  vultures  flock; 

And  where  below  its  steeps  the  savage  skiff 

Cuts  with  a  pitiless  knife  the  rope  let  down 

For  water.     From  the  earth  this  Indian  town 

Vanished  and  on  this  Rock  the  Illini 

Thirsting,  their  buckets  taken  with  the  knife, 

Lay  down  to  die. 


[3] 


STARVED  ROCK 

This  is  the  land  where  every  generation 
Lets  down  its  buckets  for  the  water  of  Life. 
We  are  the  children  and  the  epigone 
Of  the  Illini,  the  vanished  nation. 
And  this  starved  scarp  of  stone 
Is  now  the  emblem  of  our  tribulation, 
The  inverted  cup  of  our  insatiable  thirst, 
The  Illini  by  fate  accursed, 
This'land  lost  to  the  Pottawatomies, 
They  lost  the  land  to  us, 
Who  baffled  and  idolatrous, 
And  thirsting,  spurred  by  hope 
Kneel  upon  aching  knees, 

And  with  our  eager  hands  draw  up  the  bucketless  rope. 
***** 

This  is  the  tragic,  the  symbolic  face, 

Le  Rocher  or  Starved  Rock, 

Round  which  the  eternal  turtles  drink  and  swim 

And  serpents  green  and  strange, 

As  race  comes  after  race, 

War  after  war. 

This  is  the  sphinx  whose  M emnon  lips  breathe  dirges 

To  empire's  wayward  star, 

And  over  the  race's  restless  urges, 

Whose  lips  unlock 

Life's  secret  which  is  vanishment  and  change. 


HYMN  TO  THE  DEAD 

O,  you  who  have  gone  from  the  ways  of  cities, 

From  the  peopled  places,  the  streets  of  strife, 

From  offices,  markets,  rooms,  retreats, 

Pastoral  ways,  hamlets,  everywhere  from  the  earth, 

And  have  made  of  the  emptiness  of  your  departure 

A  land,  a  country,  a  realm  all  your  own, 

Set  above  the  hills  of  our  vision,  an  empire 

Within,  around,  above  our  empire  of  days, 

Of  pain  and  clamorous  tongues; 

An  empire  which  out  of  a  sovereign  silence 

Stretches  its  power  over  the  restless  multitude 

Of  our  thoughts,  and  the  ceaseless  music  of  our  beings, 

And  surrounds  us  even  as  the  air  we  breathe  — 

O  ye  majestic  Dead,  hear  our  hymn! 


The  clown,  the  wastrel  and  the  fool  in  life 

Are  lifted  up  by  you,  O  Death! 

The  least  of  these  who  has  entered  in 

Your  realm,  O  Death, 

Is  greater  than  the  greatest  of  us, 

And  by  a  transfiguration  has  been  clothed 

With  the  glory  and  the  wonder  of  nature. 

He  has  drunk  of  the  purple  cup  of  apotheosis, 

And  passed  through  the  mystical  change, 

[5] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  accomplished  the  cycle  of  being. 

He  has  risen  from  the  lowlands  of  earth 

Into  the  air  on  wings  of  breath. 

He  has  rejected  the  shell  of  the  body,  feet  and  hands, 

He  has  become  one  with  the  majesty  of  Time, 

And  taken  the  kingdom  of  triumph 

Whether  it  be  cessation  or  bliss. 

For  he  has  entered  into  the  kingdom  of  primal  powers, 

Being  or  ceasing  to  be, 

Even  as  he  has  re-entered  the  womb  of  nature. 

Or  he  has  found  peace, 

States  of  wisdom,  or  vision  — 

Hail!  realm  of  Silence, 

Whence  comes  the   unheard  symphony  too  deep   for 

strings, 

Hail,  infinite  Light, 
Darkness  to  eyes  of  flesh  — 
All  hail! 


What  are  we,  the  living,  beside  you  the  dead  ? 
We  of  daily  hunger,  daily  food,  daily  ablutions, 
The  daily  rising  and  lying  down, 
Waking  and  sleep ; 
The  daily  care  of  the  body's  needs; 
And  daily  desire  to  pass  the  gift  of  life; 
And  daily  fears  of  the  morrow  to  come; 
And  daily  pains  for  things  that  are  gone; 
And  daily  longing  for  things  that  fly  us; 
And  sorrow  that  follows  wherever  we  go; 
[6] 


HYMN  TO  THE  DEAD 

And  love  that  mocks  us,  and  peace  that  breaks, 

And  shame  that  tracks  us,  and  want  that  gnaws. 

But  O  ye  Dead!     Ye  great  ones, 

Triumphant  over  these,  released 

From  the  duties  of  dust,  all  chains  of  desire, 

And  made  inhabitants  of  breathless  spaces, 

Immanent  in  a  realm  of  calm, 

Rulers  of  a  sphere  of  tideless  air, 

Victo«  returned  from  the  war  of  death  in  life, 

Victors  over  death  in  death! 


For  the  growing  soul  turns  in 

Even  as  the  seed  turns  in  on  itself, 

And  becomes  hard,  transparent, 

An  encased  life,  condensed 

In  the  process  of  saving  itself 

From  rains  that  beat  in  the  fall, 

And  frosts  that  descend  from  skies  grown  cold. 

And  we  who  shed  away  old  thoughts  and  hopes, 

Days  and  dreams  of  life 

Turn  in,  grow  clear  like  grains  of  rice, 

Until  the  realm  of  death 

Is  as  snow  delivered  land 

Luring  the  seed  — 

And  it  becomes  our  home,  our  country, 

Our  native  land  that  calls  us  back 

From  this  sojourn  of  adventure, 

And  place  of  profit; 

For  O  ye  majestic  Dead,  your  absence  draws  us, 

[7] 


STARVED  ROCK 

If  it  be  naught  but  absence  still  you  summon, 
Your  absence  has  become  a  very  Presence, 
A  Power,  a  hierarchy  of  Life! 

***** 

Even  as  leaves  enrich  the  earth 

Layer  on  layer, 

Even  as  bodies  of  men  enrich  the  soil 

Generation  on  generation, 

So  do  the  spirits  of  those  departed 

Enrich  our  soil  of  life 

With  delights,  wisdoms,  purest  hopes, 

And  shapes  of  beauty. 

But  oh  beyond  all  these,  is  our  life  enriched 

With  exalted  contemplations 

Of  you,  O  glorious  Dead, 

Who  have  eaten  of  the  tree  of  life  and  become  gods, 

Friendly  divinities  to  us  who   remain, 

Dear  familiars,  as  you  were  with  us 

Fathers,  children,  lovers,  friends. 

Ye  who  sense  with  the  inner  eye, 

Since  nothing  in  our  days  of  living 

Moves  uncolored  of  your  splendors, 

Presences  to  which  all  things  relate! 

***** 

O  realm  of  the  Dead, 
Black  Mountain,  if  you  be, 
Which  darkens  heaven, 
And  shadows  earth, 
Round  which  our  spirits  flutter 
[8] 


HYMN  TO  THE  DEAD 

Like  startled  moths. 

Hl.irk  mountain  \\  ith  whose  blackness 

The  light  of  life  is  mixed, 

Whereof  all  hues  are  made: 

All  thoughts,  all  lofty  wanderings  of  the  soul, 

All  meanings,  divinations 

Of  briefest  hours,  and  frailest  joys, 

All  wonders  of  the  spectrum  of  the  soul 

Out  of  life  and  death ! 

***** 

Realm  of  the  Dead !     Supreme  Reality 
All  Hail! 


CREATION 

Passion  flower  unfolding  in  darkness! 

Glow-worm  under  a  spray  of  lilac! 

Flame  on  the  altar  of  love! 

Beloved  in  your  chamber! 

The  phoenix  moon  rising  from  the  ashes  of  day 

Spreads  her  wings  of  saffron  fire 

Above  the  enchanted  garden. 

And  I  brush  away  the  leaves  of  night 

To  find  the  star  of  my  love. 

I  part  the  curtains  about  the  altar, 

I  enter  your  chamber,  beloved. 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  have  entered  your  chamber,  beloved, 

I  have  found  my  star. 

Between  kisses  and  whispers 

And  the  silken  touch  of  flesh 

Breast  to  breast,  lips  to  lips, 

Our  souls  are  seeking  and  drifting! 

As  an  albatross  hovers  and  flies 

With  the  running  sea  .  .  . 

Powers  of  body,  powers  of  spirit, 

Divinities 

Awakened  never  before, 

Hidden  in  nerves  asleep,  in  veins  without  a  tide 

[10] 


CREATION 

Flow  through  us. 
I  give  you  my  life,  beloved, 
For  life  of  you,  given  to  me  — 
O  bride  of  love! 


O  hair  of  fire!     O  breasts  of  light, 

Like  double  stars! 

O  voice  like  a  lute  that  whispers 

At  midnight,  in  a  bower  of  roses! 

O  body  luminous  as  the  nebulous  waste 

Across  the  midnight, 

Pour  on  my  breast,  my  hands,  my  brow 

The  sacred  fire, 

As  our  flesh  becomes  one 

Upborne  by  your  breasts, 

White  as  bridal  blossoms 

Where  there  is  yet  no  milk, 

But  only  eddying  blood 

Circling  in  whirlpools  of  delirious  ecstasy 

In  time  with  the  blood  of  me. 

Our  lips  together,  our  bodies  together 

While  the  yearning  urn  of  porphyry 

Waits  to  drink  the  silver  stream, 

And  thirsts  to  drink, 

And  poises  like  a  gold  fish  waiting 

For  the  stream  of  silver  fire.  .  .  . 

But  oh,  hands  of  me  that  clasp  your  sunny  head, 
Drawing  it  close  to  my  breast, 


STARVED  ROCK 

In  rapture  of  its  beauty! 

O  temple  of  your  spirit! 

Spirit  of  you  which  I  woo  and  would  win, 

In  rapture  without  will, 

In  rapture  blind,  save  for  the  inspired  urge, 

In  rapture  seeking  further  rapture, 

In  rapture  to  wed  your  spirit  fully, 

And  all  your  spirit,  which  my  spirit 

Through  the  unity  of  flesh  would  reach 

And  win,  and  keep  — 

Bride  of  lightning! 

Bride  of  Life! 


As  when  the  butterfly  slowly  moves  his  wings 
Drawing  from  the  virgin  core  of  honeysuckles 
The  sweetest  drop  of  dew:  — 
So  pause  his  wings  spread  wide 
When  all  is  gained. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Goddess  of  the  white  dawn, 
Let  my  beloved  sleep  — 
Robins  that  sing  at  dawn, 
Wake  not  my  beloved ! 
I  sleep  with  my  beloved, 
And  she  sleeps  with  me, 
And  a  life  sleeps  now 
That  will  wake! 


[12] 


THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE 

At  Philae,  in  the  temple  of  Isis, 

The  fruitful  and  terrible  goddess, 

Under  a  running  panel  of  the  sacred  ibis, 

Is  pictured  the  dead  body  of  Osiris 

Waiting  the  resurrection  morn. 

And  a  priest  is  pouring  water  blue  as  iris 

Out  of  a  pitcher  on  the  stalk  of  corn 

That  from  the  body  of  the  god  is  growing, 

Before  the  rising  tides  of  the  Nile  are  flowing. 

And  over  the  pictured  body  is  this  inscription 

In  the  temple  of  Isis,  the  Egyptian: 

This  is  the  nameless  one,  whom  Isis  decrees 

Not  to  be  named,  the  god  of  life  and  yearning, 

Osiris  of  the  mysteries, 

Who  springs  from  the  waters  ever  returning. 

At  the  gate  of  the  Lord's  house, 

Ezekiel,  the  prophet,  beheld  the  abomination  of  Babylon: 

Women  with  sorrow  on  their  brows 

In  lamentation,  weeping 

For  the  bereavement  of  Ishtar  and  for  Tammuz  sleeping, 

And  for  the  summer  gone. 

Tammuz  has  passed  below 

To  the  house  of  darkness  and  woe, 

[13] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Where  dust  lies  on  the  bolt  and  on  the  floor 

Behind  the  winter's  iron  door; 

And  Ishtar  has  followed  him, 

Leaving  the  meadows  gray,  the  orchards  dim 

With  driving  rain  and  mist, 

And  winds  that  mourn. 

Ishtar  has  vanished,  and  all  life  has  ceased; 

No  flower  blossoms  and  no  child  is  born. 

But  not  as  Mary  Magdalen  came  to  the  tomb, 

The  women  in  the  gardens  of  Adonis, 

Crying,  "  The  winter  sun  is  yet  upon  us," 

Planted  in  baskets  seeds  of  various  bloom, 

Which  sprouted  like  frail  hopes,  then  wilted  down 

For  the  baskets'  shallow  soil. 

Then  for  a  beauty  dead,  a  futile  toil, 

For  leaves  that  withered,  yellow  and  brown, 

From  the  gardens  of  Adonis  into  the  sea, 

They  cast  the  baskets  of  their  hope  away: 

A  ritual  of  the  things  that  cease  to  be, 

Brief  loveliness  and  swift  decay. 

And  O  ye  holy  women,  who  at  Delphi 

Roused  from  sleep  the  cradled  Dionysius, 

Who  with  an  April  eye 

Looked  up  at  them, 

Before  the  adorable  god,  the  infant  Jesus, 

Was  found  at  Bethlehem! 

For  at  Bethlehem  the  groaning  world's  desire 
For  spring,  that  burned  from  Egypt  up  to  Tyre, 


THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE 

And  from  Tyre  to  Athens  beheld  an  epiphany  of  fire: 

The  flesh  fade  flower-like  while  the  soul  kept  breath 

Beyond  the  body's  death, 

Even  as  nature  which  revives; 

In  consummation  of  the  faith 

That  Tammuz,  the  Soul,  survives, 

And  is  not  sacrificed 

In  the  darkness  where  the  dust 

Lies  on   the  bolt   and   on  the  floor, 

And  passes  not  behind  the  iron  door 

Save  it  be  followed  by  the  lover  Christ, 

The  Ishtar  of  the  faithful  trust, 

Who  knocks  and  says:     "This  soul,  which  winter  knew 

In  life,  in  death  at  last, 

Finds  spring  through  me,  and  waters  fresh  and  blue. 

For  lo,  the  winter  is  past; 

The  rain  is  over  and  gone. 

I  open!     It  is  dawn!  " 


[15] 


TYRANNOSAURUS:     OR  BURNING 
LETTERS 

Trees  of  the  forest  ground  to  pulp, 

Rolled  into  sheets  and  rabbit  tracked 

With  nut-gall  or  with  nigrosine  — 

Then  look  at  spirits  thrill,  or  gulp 

A  lost  delight,  a  rising  spleen 

For  love  that  grew  intense  or  slacked  .  .  . 

Here  are  the  letters,  torn  in  bits, 
Crammed  in  the  basket,  look  how  full! 
Our  little  fireplace  scarce  admits 
So  much  that  once  was  beautiful. 
Here  where  we  sat  and  dreamed  together 
In  March,  and  now  when  we  should  be 
Friends  in  the  glory  of  June  weather, 
We  tear  our  letters  up  —  oh,  me! 
Call  Jane  to  take  the  basket  down, 
And  throw  these  on  the  furnace  fire. 
Let  ashes  drift  about  the  town 
Of  what  was  our  desire! 

What  are  we  to  the  gods,  I  wonder? 
Perhaps  two  crickets  in  the  grass, 
Who  meet  and  drop  their  stomachs'  plunder 
To  touch  antennae  as  they  pass. 
[16] 


I  VRANNOSAURUS 

So  kissing  in  such  soul  communion 
The  gardener's  step  is  heard,  and  quick 
The  crickets  break  their  spirits'  union, 
Hide  under  logs  or  bits  of  brick. 
Does  guilty  conscience  stir  the  crickets? 
What  does  he  care?     Why  not  a  snap. 
He's  trimming  out  the  hazel  thickets 
For  a  tennis  court  and  shooting  trap.  . 
You  are  afraid  of  God!     Not  that? 
Some  step  has  frightened  you,  I  know. 
Well,  then  it's  gossip  the  alley-cat. 
At  least  our  hands  grow  cold  as  snow, 
Relax  their  touch,  and  then  we  come, 
Tear  up  the  letters,  sit  and  stare 
Some  moments,  wholly  dumb ! 

If  we  are  crickets,  still  our  breasts 
Contain  for  us  things  real  enough. 
The  gods  may  laugh,  their  interests 
Are  what?     I  wonder  —  not  the  love 
Such  as  we  knew.     To  be  a  god 
Through  love  is  what  I  hoped,  and  rise 
Above  the  level  of  the  clod. 
They  said  it  can't  be,  who  are  wise, 
That's  not  the  way  to  win  the  prize: 
Or  if  it  be,  I  don't  know  how; 
Or  you  are  not  the  one  with  whom 
I  might  have  won  it.     Well,  my  brow 
Is  turned  into  a  whitened  tomb 
With  all  uncleanness  in  it;  dreams 

[17] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Rotting  away  with  hopes  as  fair  .  .  . 

To  me,  the  liver,  nothing  seems 

Won  that  is  lost.     I  can't  invert, 

Sophisticate  the  facts,  or  swear 

My  evil  good.     A  hurt's  a  hurt, 

A  loss  a  loss,  a  scar  a  scar, 

A  spirit  frustrate  is  inert. 

To  stretch  your  hands  toward  a  star 

And  lose  the  star,  or  have  it  die 

To  ashes  like  a  rocket,  alters 

The  aspect  of  your  being's  sky. 

You've  learned  no  praise  from  earthly  psalters 

Can  win  the  star,  or  else  you've  learned 

The  star  you  touched  was  quickly  turned 

To  ashes  while  it  burned. 

Hell!     Let  us  face  it.     Here  it  is 

We  had  some  walks,  some  precious  talks, 

Some  hours  of  paradise  and  bliss. 

Our  blossom  opened,  we  inhaled 

All  of  its  fragrance,  now  I  scowl 

Because  our  wonder  blossom  paled 

For  lack  of  water  in  the  bowl 

Tipped  over  by  the  alley-cat, 

Or  what  not,  change,  distrust  or  fear; 

Your  pride,  your  will,  a  hovering  gnat 

I  struck  at  striking  you,  a  blear 

Of  eyes  a  moment,  making  blind 

My  vision,  yours.  .  .  .  Or  there's  the  age, 

The  age  is  frightful  to  my  mind, 

[18] 


1  YRANNOSAURUS 

Nothing  to  do  but  stand  it  —  well 
I  sit  here  and  say  "  hell." 

For  it's  really  hell  to  have  a  will, 
It's  hell  to  hope  and  to  believe, 
That  good  can  swallow  up  the  ill, 
That  gods  are  working,  will  achieve. 
They  may  be,  yet  they  disregard 
Our  cricket  feelings,  so  we  shrill 
Sonnets  and  elegies  round  the  yard  .  .  . 
Let's  talk  a  bit  of  chlorophyll: 
The  sun  was  useless  for  our  life, 
No  wine,  no  beef,  no  watercress 
Until  this  chlorophyll  grew  rife 
Millions  of  years  since,  more  or  less. 
And  if  no  wine  or  beef,  no  love, 
No  pulp,  no  paper,  nigrosine, 
No  letters  which  are  made  thereof. 
Think!     All  we  found  and  lost  has  been 
Through  chlorophyll. 

And  just  suppose 

Nature  should  lose  the  secret  power 
For  making  chlorophyll,  the  rose 
We  cherished  would  not  come  to  flower. 
No  other  man  and  woman  more 
Would   burn   their   letters  grieving  —  yet 
We  may  be  rising,  for  who  knows 
There  may  be  something  vastly  better 
Than  love  to  flame  and  flay  and  fret, 
[19] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  hate  this  letter  and  that  letter, 
Once  rid  of  chlorophyll,  in  case 
A  subtler  substance  could  be  given 
To  this  poor  globe  out  of  heaven  — 
We  are  a  weak,  if  growing  race! 

Here,  then,  I  think  is  a  moral  for  us, 

Another  is  tyrannosaurus  — 

Tyrannosaurus,  what  of  him, 

The  monarch  of  this  world  one  time, 

Back  in  the  aeons  wet  and  dim? 

He  faded  like  a  pantomime. 

And  he  could,  well,  step  over  trees, 

Crunch  up  bowlders  like  cracking  nuts, 

Flip  horses  away  like  bumble-bees, 

Stretch  out  in  valleys  as  if  they  were  ruts; 

And  hide  a  man  in  his  nostril's  hole, 

And  crush  young  forestry  just  like  weeds. 

He  came  and  went,  and  what's  your  soul, 

And  what  is  mine  with  their  crying  needs? 

And  love  that  seemed  eternal  once, 

Given  of  God  to  lift,  inspire, 

Well  —  now  do  we  see?     Was  I  dunce 

Drunk  with  the  wine  of  soul's  desire? 

Who  made  that  wine,  why  did  I  drink  it? 

Why  did   I  want   it?     What's  the  game? 

Are  spirits  chaos?     I  scarce  can  think  it. 

Why  fly  for  the  light  and  get  the  flame? 

Is  love  for  souls  of  us  chlorophyll 

That  makes  us  eatable,  sweet  and  crisp 

[20] 


TYRANNOSAURUS 

For  Gods  that  raise  us  to  feed  their  fill? 

Who  lives,  the  dreamer,  the  will  o'  the  wisp? 

Do  Gods  live,  vanish,  return  again? 

Who  in  the  devil  has  love  or  luck  ? 

One  thing  is  true,  there's  rapture  and  pain. 

As  for  the  rest,  I  pass  the  buck. 

Something  occurs,  and  God  knows  what, 

Tyrannosaurus  fades  like  a  ghost. 

That  throws  a  light  on  our  little  lot, 

Love  that  is  won.  love  that  is  lost. 

Even  a  hundred  years  from  now, 

If  this  poor  earth  is  rolling  still, 

Hearts  will  quiver,  break  or  bow  — 

Provided  the  plants  have  chlorophyll. 

Oh  well!     Oh  hell!     We  must  be  heroic, 

And  it  helps  to  scan  a  million  of  years. 

And  to  think  of  monstrous  beasts  mesoic, 

Brightens,  though  it  dries  no  tears. 

I'll  dream  for  life  of  our  walks  by  the  river  — 

That  was  March  and  it's  now  July. 

And  this  remains:     I'll  love  you  forever  — 

Burn  up  the  letters  now  —  Good  by ! 


LORD  BYRON  TO  DOCTOR  POLIDORI 

No  more  of  searching,  Doctor  —  let  it  go. 

It  can't  be  lost.     I  have  a  memory 

I  put  it  in  a  drawer,  or  again 

I  seem  to  see  me  tuck  it  in  a  pocket 

Of  some  portmanteau.     If  you  find  the  letter 

Deliver  it  to  Moore.     But  if  it's  lost, 

The  story  is  not  lost.     I  tell  you  this 

To  save  the  story  from  my  side.     Attend! 

It  was  this  way: 

Allegra  had  become 
A  child  requiring  care,  and  nutritive 
Instruction   in   religion,   morals,   well, 
They  call  me  blasphemer  and  sensualist, 
But  read  my  poems.     Christianity 
Was  never  of  rejected  things  with  me. 
The  Decalogue  is  good  enough,  I  think. 
And  Shelley's  theories,  atheist  speculations 
I  never  shared  —  nor  social  dreams.     The  scheme 
Of  having  all  things,  women,  too,  in  common 
Means  common  women.     I  have  sinned,  I  know  — 
I  call  it  sin.     The  marriage  vow  I  honor, 
And  woman's  virtue.     Though  I  stray,  I  hold 
That  women  should  be  chaste,  though  man  is  not. 
That's  why  I  placed  Allegra  in  a  convent.  .  .  . 

[22] 


LORD  BYRON  TO  DOCTOR  POLIDORI 

Now  to  the  letter,  and  my  story  of  it. 

The  mother,  Claire,  Claire  Claremont,  as  you  know  — 

Pined  for  Alleizra ;  would  possess  the  child 

And  take  her  from  the  convent  —  where?     No  doubt 

To  Shelley's  nest,  where  William  Godwin's  daughter 

Raised  on  free  love,  and  Shelley  preaching  it, 

And  Claire  in  whom  'tis  bred,  hold  sway,  who  read, 

Talk,  argue,  dream  of  freedom,  all  the  things 

Opposed  to  what  is  in  the  present  order. 

You  know  the  notes  to  "  Queen  Mab."     Well,  I  say 

This  suits  me  not. 

So  Shelley  and  his  wife, 
Mary,  the  planet  of  an  hour,  since  quenched, 
Conceive  I  keep  Allegra  where  she  is 
From  wounded  pride,  or  pique.     Hell  fire!     They  think 
I'm  hurt  for  thinking  Claire  and  Shelley  join 
Their  lips  in  love,  and  masque  my  jealousy 
By  just  this  pose  of  morals,  make  reprisal 
Under  a  lying  flag,  and  keep  Allegra 
To  punish  Claire  and  sate  my  jealousy 
By  this  hypocrisy  —  It  makes  me  laugh. 

But  to  pursue.     A  maid  who  was  discharged 

From  Shelley's  household  told  the  credible  tale 

That   Claire   was   Shelley's   mistress,   and   the   Hoppners 

Heard  and  believed  —  why  not?     As  she  is  fair, 

And  Shelley  wrote  "  Love  is  like  understanding 

Which  brighter  grows  gazing  on  many  truths, 

[23] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Increases  by  division,"  that  himself 

Could  not  accept  the  code,  a  man  should  choose 

One  woman  and  leave  all  the  rest,  why  not  ? 

As  for  myself,   I  have   not  preached  this  doctrine, 

Though  living  it  as  men  do  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

Oh  yes,  I  know  this  love  called  spiritual, 

Of  which  old  maids,  whose  milk  has  gone  to  brain 

And  curdled  in  the  process,  and  who  hate  me 

For  taking  men  and  women  as  they  are, 

Talk  to  create  belief  for  self  and  others. 

Denial  makes  philosophies,  religions. 
Indulgence  leaves  one  sane,  objectifies 
The  eternal  womanly,  freeing  brain  of  fumes, 
To  work  with  master  hands  with  love  and  life. 

The  story  rose,  however. 

Then  comes  Shelley 

Bearing  a  letter  from  his  wife,  denying 
That  Claire  and  Shelley  loved,  you  understand  — 
By  the  flesh.     Sweet,  was  it  not?     Naive! 
This  letter  I  should  hand  the  Hoppners,  who 
Believed  the  story,  and  who  held  a  place 
Persuasive  touching  poor  Allegra.     Well, 
So  Shelley  comes  and  makes  the  point,  the  child 
Is  in  ill  health,  Claire,  too,  in  a  decline, 
And  hands  this  letter  to  me  for  the  Hoppners. 

[24] 


LORD  BYRON  TO  DOCTOR  POLIDORI 

And  I've  misplaced  it.     Frankly,  from  the  first, 

Had  no  fixed  purpose  to  deliver  it. 

What  principle  makes  me  collaborator 

With  such  fantastic  business?     To  resume: 

He  acted  like  the  boy  he  was.     I  smiled  — 

Against  the  flaming  rage  that  burned  his  face  — 

My  mocking  smile,  he  thought,  the  Don  Juan 

Upcurved   my   lips.     I    read   his  very  thought 

Between  words  spoken;  words  that  he  suppressed: 

It  was  that  I  was  glad  that  Claire  was  ill 

Because  of  that  male  mood  when  love  of  man 

Finds  sustenance  where  suffering  lays  low 

The  object  of  desire:     If  she  suffers, 

The  man  subdues,  devours  her.     She  escapes 

If  free  of  love.     Oh  yes,  and  this  he  thought: 

That  I  was  glad  she  suffered,  since  my  glory 

Had  failed  to  hold  her,  failed  to  satisfy 

Her  noble  heart!     God's  wounds!     Why  Shelley  thought 

She  turned  to  him  and  with  his  spirit  found 

A  purity  of  peace  and  sweetest  friendship, 

And  faith  that  saves  and  serves,  as  men  and  women 

Are  to  each  other  souls  to  serve  and  save! 

Poor  fool!     I  read  it  all,  or  pieced  it  out 

With  words  that  I  picked  up  from  time  to  time.  .  .  . 

There  was  this  further  thing:     I  am  a  man, 
So  say  they,  who  accepts  the  dying  creed 
That  woman's  love  is  lawless  and  a  toy 
When  given  if  no  priest  has  sanctified  it  — 
Not  quite,  perhaps.     The  point  is  further  on. 

[25] 


STARVED  ROCK 

In  any  case  'tis  this:  that  this  belief, 
Mine  or  part  mine,  and  coloring  my  acts, 
Shadowed  no  whit  the  brow  of  Lady  Claire. 
And  that  I,  greatest  lover  of  my  time, 
Had  won  this  lady's  body  but  to  lose 
The  lady's  soul,  a  soul  that  slipped  and  fled 
Out  of  the  hands  that  clasped  her  flesh,  because 
She  knew  me  through  her  gift,  thought  less  of  me, 
And  no  wise  felt  herself  bound  to  my  life 
Because  she  gave  her  body.     Kept  her  mind, 
Soul,  free,  untouched  by  that  gift,  by  the  gift 
Was  cognizant  of  what  is  false  and  poor  — 
(I  use  some  words  I  heard)   in  me.     And  thus 
I  lost  her  soul,  though  earlier  I  had  gained 
What  seemed  all  to  me,  all  I  had  the  genius 
To  comprehend  in  woman!     Then  comes  Shelley 
And  finds  her  soul,  the  genuine  prize,  and  I 
Grow  sullen  with  a  consciousness  of  vision 
Inferior  to  his.     All  this  they  thought. 
Oh  Jesus,  what  a  lie! 


I  have  loved  Nature,  love  her  now:  and  woman 

Is  Nature,  and  my  love  for  nature  means 

Inclusion  of  the  sex.     I  have  not  soared 

To  heights  that  sickened  me  and  made  me  laugh 

At  what  I  sought  —  or  turned  from  it.     No  moons 

Behind  the  clouds;  no  terrors  and  no  symbols, 

No  Emilia  Vivianni's  have  I  had. 

I  know,  believe  me,  love  for  woman  calls 

[26] 


LORD  BYRON  TO  DOCTOR  POLIDORI 

A  man's  soul  up  to  heights  too  rare  to  live  in. 

I  have  not  risen,  therefore,  will  not  rise 

Where  thinking  stops,  because  the  blood  leaves  brain 

Therefore  have  had  no  falls,  and  no  recoils 

Chasing  the  Plato  vision,  the  star,  the  wonder, 

The  beauty  and  the  terror,  harmony 

Of  nature's  art;  the  passion  that  would  make 

The  loved  one  of  the  self-same  womb  with  me, 

A  sister,  spouse  or  angel,  da?mon,  pilot 

Of  life  and  fate. 

How  much  of  truth  is  here? 

Dreams  seen  most  vividly  by  Petrarch,  Dante, 

Who  loved  without  achievement,  balking  nature, 

Till  Passion,  like  an  involute,  pressed  in 

Harder  and  harder  on  its  starving  leaves, 

Becomes  a  fragrance  —  sublimate  of  self 

Sucked  out  of  sorrow's  earth,  at  last  becomes 

A  meditative  madness.     All  is  written 

Fairly  across  my  page.     "  She  walks  in  beauty:  " 

"  When  we  two  parted,"  "  Could  love  like  a  river," 

"  Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul."     Lines,  lines 

In  "  Harold,"  "  Don  Juan."     Yes,  I  have  loved, 

But  saw  how  far  love  lures,  how  far  to  venture, 

Knowing  what  can  and  what  cannot  be  made 

Of  the  mystery,  the  wonder,  therefore  never 

Have  had  to  laugh  at  self ;  find  Vivianni 

A    housemaid   shelling  corn  —  not   threading   pearls. 

[27] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Or  sit,  with  idiot  eyes,  my  bones  half  broken, 
Icarus  bumped  amid  a  field  of  stones. 

I  know  the  hour  of  farewell.     I  have  said  it 
When  my  heart  trembled,  stopped  as  when  a  horse 
Braces  its  terrored  feet  to  keep  from  plunging 
Over  the  precipice.     Farewell!     Farewell! 
I  know  to  say,  and  turn,  and  pass  my  way. 

Why!     For  that  matter,  even  now  behold! 

Do  I  feel  less  than  Shelley  would  in  this? 

I  leave  the  Countess  for  the  war  in  Greece. 

What's   done   is   done.     What's   lived    is   lived.     Come, 

Doctor, 

Let's  practice  with  the  pistols.     Mother  of  God, 
What  is  this  thing  called  Life? 


[28] 


THE  FOLDING  MIRROR 

A  folding  mirror!     What  may  it  be? 

Nothing?     Or  something?     Let  me  see! 

Its  silver  chain  is  hung  to  the  sky 

On  a  planet  nail.     And  it  fronts  my  eye. 

No  stars  reflect  themselves  at  first, 

The  mirrors  are  dustless,  vacant  and  clean. 

Not  even  my  face  shows  —  am  I  cursed  ? 

What  may  the  mirrors  mean? 


1  watch  like  a  cat  that  waits  to  mangle 
A  breathless  rat  in  an  alley  nook. 
And  a  little  figure  steps  into  the  angle 
Made  by  the  folding  mirrors.     Look! 
His  thin  legs  wobble,  bend  and  dangle 
Like  radish  roots.     He  takes  the  crook 
Out  of  his  arms  and  raises  them  up, 
As  if  in  panic,  or  supplication. 
He  bends  and  peers,  whines  like  a  pup, 
Walks  to  and  fro  in  his  desperation, 
Pinches  his  arms  and  beats  his  breast; 
Runs  quivering  fingers  between  his  hair, 
Wavers  for  weariness,  sighs  for  rest, 
Looks  up  to  the  planet  that  seems  to  bear 
The  silver  chain  like  a  brad  in  the  wall. 

[29] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Upsprings,  searches  the  mirrors  again; 

Sees  for  the  first  the  prodigal 

Waste  of  stars  in  the  black  inane. 

Stamps  with  his  feet  upon  the  void 

He  stands  on,  paces  on,  why,  he  wonders 

Is  he  upborned  like  an  asteroid? 

Hark!     The  limitless  blackness  thunders: 

The  Infinite  growls,  he  whirls  and  shivers, 

Runs  to  cover  the  mirrors  to  climb. 

They  yield  like  the  waters  of  phantom  rivers. 

He  acts  like  a  soul  new  born  that  quivers 

Before  the  mirrors  of  Space  and  Time. 

***** 

Now  what's  to  do?     He  must  fill  in. 

This  emptiness  with  horror  is  shod. 

When  did  this  pageant  of  things  begin? 

Somewhere  hiding  there  is  a  God. 

Some  one  drove  that  planet  nail 

Into  the  blue  wall;  some  one  hung 

The  silver  chain.     And  what  is  the  tale 

Of  the  mirrors  here  in  the  blackness  swung? 

The  soul  is  naked,  weak  and  alone, 

And  sees  its  nakedness  in  the  glass. 

It  must  create  from  wood  and  stone, 

Wire  and  reeds,  color  and  brass. 

It  must  create  though  it  be  but  a  mime, 

Make  a  reality  all  its  own 

Before  the  mirror  of  white  called  Time, 

Before  the  mirror  of  blue  called  Space. 

[30] 


THE  FOLDING  MIRROR 

Clasp  the  vastness  between  their  folds, 
Find  laws,  raise  altars,  dream  of  a  face  — 
Make  that  real  which  the  hope  beholds. 
***** 

Our  terrored  manikin  commences, 
Fattens  his  littleness  with  clothes. 
With  crowns  and  miters  puffs  his  senses, 
Crushes  the  grape  to  drown  his  woes. 
Fills   full  the   mirrors  with   faces.     Now 
They  are  dancing  before  them,  age  and  youth, 
Laurels  or  thorns  are  bound  on  a  brow. 
They  hunt  and  slay  for  a  thing  called  Truth. 
Dig  for  treasure,  toil  for  riches, 
Struggle  for  place  —  it  is  well  enough ! 
Some  lift  their  busts  into  chosen  niches. 
All  are  hungry  for  peace  and  love. 
And  only  a  few  are  blind,  dispute 
The  thing  is  a  dream.     If  there  be  worth 
It  lies  in  the  strings  of  the  lyre  or  lute, 
Sounds  that  never  return  to  earth; 
Dreams  to  seeing  eyes  reflected, 
Caught  from  infinite  realms  afar. 
How  could  they  be  seen,  or  recollected 
Except  for  the  Real  —  except  for  a  Star? 
***** 

God  in  the  blackness,  whirlwind,  lightning, 
God  in  the  blinding  fire  of  the  sun 
Before  these  empty  mirrors  brightening 
See  what  we  do,  what  we  have  done! 

[31] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Out  of  an  astral  substance  molding 

Music  and  laws  for  our  hearts'  control, 

Yes,  and  a  hope  that  the  mirrors'  folding 

Lets  slip  through  a  growing  soul. 

Are  you  not  proud  of  us,  do  you  not  pity? 

Is  all  the  glory  thine  alone? 

Then  if  it  be,  you  must  take  the  city 

Builded,  demolished  stone  from  stone. 

All  of  our  madness,  weariness,  error, 

Blindness,  weakness,  pain  and  loss, 

Fumbling  feebly  before  the  mirror, 

Yours  is  the  crown,  but  yours  the  cross! 

Yours  is  the  juice  of  grape  or  poppies 

To  fill  the  void  with  a  make  believe; 

Yours  the  hope  where  never  a  prop  is, 

The  opiates,  too,  that  dull,  deceive, 

No  less  than  nature  that  lifts  eternal 

Vision  of  Life  to  quiet  the  heart: 

Verse  and  color  that  stamp  the  infernal 

Dragon  of  Fear  with  the  feet  of  Art. 

Yours  and  ours  the  consolations 

In  loneliness  and  in  terror  wrought 

Out  of  our  spirits'  desolations, 

Out  of  our  spirits'  love  and  thought! 


[32] 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY 

Eyes  that  have  long  looked  on  the  world, 
Taken  and  stored  the  soul  of  outward  things, 
Dread  to  look  on  themselves, 
In  the  mirror  to  gaze  upon  their  mirrorings! 

There  to  behold  what  time  has  done,  what  thought 
Has  changed  their  look  and  light. 
I  have  lost  my  face  through  sorrow  and  dreams 
And  dare  not  find  it,  lest  it  smite 

This  self  to-day,  since  I  may  not  restore 
My  old  self  who  in  gladness  without  terror 
Beheld  and  knew  myself 
Each  morning  in  the  mirror! 

In  the  long  quest  of  love  I  may  have  found 

A  spirit  after  whom  my  passion  lusted. 

But  I  had  trust  not  giving  love, 

I  have  given  love  to  hearts  I  have  not  trusted. 

One  thing  has  come  that  I  would  never  see, 
Hidden  or  trembling  in  my  eyes: 
Love  in  the  mirror  shown  fatigued  and  mild, 
Hopeless  and  wise. 

[33] 


WILD  BIRDS 

The  wild  birds  among  the  reeds 

Cry,  exult  and  stretch  their  wings. 

Out  of  the  sky  they  drift 

And  sink  to  the  water's  rushes. 

But  the  wild  birds  beat  their  wings  and  cry 

To  the  newcomer  out  of  the  sky! 

Is  he  a  stranger,  this  wild  bird  out  of  the  sky? 

Or  do  they  cry  to  him  because  of  remembered  places 

And  remembered  days 

Spent  together 

In  the  north-land,  or  the  south-land? 

Is  this  the  ecstasy  of  renewal, 

Or  the  ecstasy  of  beginning? 

For  the  wild  bird  touches  his  bill 

Against  a  mate; 

He  brushes  her  wing  with  his  wing; 

He  quivers  with  delight 

For  the  cool  sky  of  blue, 

And  the  touch  of  her  wing! 

The  wild  birds  fly  up  from  the  reeds  of  the  water, 
Some  for  the  south, 

[34] 


WILD  BIRDS 

Some  for  the  north. 
They  are  gone  — 
Lost  in  the  sky! 

In  what  water  do  these  mates  of  a  morning 

Exult  on  the  morrow? 

What  wild  birds  will  cry  to  them  as  they  sink 

Out  of  an  unknown  sky? 

To  whose  cry  will  she  quiver 

Through  her  burnished  wings  to-morrow, 

In  the  north-land, 

In  the  south-land, 

Far  away? 


[35] 


A  LADY 

She  sleeps  beneath  a  canopy  of  carnation  silk, 

Embroidered  with  Venetian  lace, 

Between  linens  that  crush  in  the  hand 

Soft  as  down. 

Waking,  she  looks  through  a  window 

Curtained   with  carnation  silk, 

Embroidered  with  Venetian  lace, 

The  walls  are  hung  with  velvet 

Embossed  with  a  fteur  de  Us, 

And  around  her  is  the  silence  of  richness, 

Where  foot-falls  are  like  exhalations 

From  carpets  of  moss. 

Little  clocks  tinkle. 

Medallions  priceless  as  jewels 

Lie  by  jars  suspiring  like  coals  of  fire. 

And  a  maid  prepares  the  bath, 

Tincturing  delicious  water  with  exquisite  essences. 

And  she  is  served  with  coffee 

In  cups  as  thin  as  petals, 

Sitting  amid  pillows  that  breathe 

The  souls  of  freesia! 

All  things  are  hers: 
Fishes  from  all  seas, 

[36] 


A  LADY 

Fruits  from  all  climes. 

The  city  lies  at  her  command, 

And  is  summoned  by  buttons 

Which  are  pressed  for  her. 

Noiselessly  feet  move  on  many  floors, 

Serving  her. 

Wheels  that  turn  under  coaches 

Of  crystal  and  ebony, 

And  yachts  dreaming  in  strange  waters, 

And  wings  —  all  are  hers! 

And  she  is  free: 

Her  husband  comes  and  goes 

From  his  suite  below  hers. 

She  never  sees  him, 

Nor  knows  his  ways,  nor  his  days. 

But  she  is  very  weary 

And  all  alone  amid  her  servants, 

And  guests  that  come  and  go. 

Her  lips  are  red, 

Her  skin  is  soft  and  smooth  — 

But  the  page  blurs  before  her  eyes. 

Her  eyelids  are  languid, 

And  droop  from  weariness, 

Though  she  will  not  rest 

From  the  long  pursuit  of  love! 

Her  hair  is  white; 

The  skin  of  her  faultless  neck 

Edges  in  creases 

[37] 


STARVED  ROCK 

As  she  turns  her  perfect  head. 

And  the  days  dawn  and  die. 

What  day  that  dawns  will  bring  her  love? 

And  day  by  day  she  waits  for  the  dawn 

Of  a  new  life,  a  great  love! 

But  every  morning  brings  its  remembrance 

Of  the  increasing  years  that  are  gone. 

And  every  evening  brings  its  fear 

Of  death  which  must  come, 

Until  her  nerves  are  shaken 

Like  a  woman's  hair  in  the  wind  — 

What  must  be  done? 

Some  one  tells  her  that  God  is  love. 

And  when  the  fears  come 

She  says  to  self  over  and  over, 

"God  is  love!     God  is  love! 

All  is  well." 

And  she  wins  a  little  oblivion, 

Through  saying  "  God  is  love," 

From  the  truth  in  her  heart  which  cries: 

"  Love  is  life, 

Love  is  a  lover, 

And  love  is  God!" 

She  is  a  flower 

Which  the  spring  has  nourished, 

And  the  summer  exhausted. 

Fall  is  at  hand. 

Weird  zephyrs  stir  her  leaves  and  blossoms; 

[38] 


A  LADY 

And  she  says  to  herself,  "  It  is  not  fall, 
For  God  is  love!" 

My  poor  flower! 

May  this  therapy  ease  you  into  sleep, 

And  the  folding  of  jewelless  hands! 

You  are  beginning  to  be  sick 

Of  the  incurable  disease  of  age, 

And  the  weariness  of  futile  flesh ! 


[39] 


THE  NEGRO  WARD 

Scarce  had  I  written:  it  were  best 
To  crush  this  love,  to  give  you  up, 
Drink  at  one  draught  the  bitter  cup, 
And  kill  this  new  life  in  my  breast, 
Than  Parker's  breathing  seemed  to  give 
Ominous  sound  the  end  was  near. 
I  did  so  want  this  man  to  live  — 
This  negro  soldier,  dear. 

'Twas  three  in  the  morning,  all  was  still 

But  Parker's  rattle  in  the  throat, 

Outside  I  heard  the  whippoorwill. 

The  new  moon  like  an  Indian  boat 

Hung  just  above  the  darkened  grove, 

Where  you  and  I  had  pledged  our  love, 

When    you   were   here.     Such    precious   hours, 

Such  fleeting  moments  then  were  ours  .  .  . 

Alone  here  in  the  silent  ward, 

With  Parker  dying,  I  was  scared. 

His  breath  came  short,  his  lips  were  blue. 

I  asked  him:     "Is  there  something  more, 

Parker,  that  I  can  do  for  you?" 

"  Please  hold  my  hand,"  he  said.     Before 

I  took  it,  it  was  growing  cold  — 

Death,  how  quick  it  comes! 

[40] 


THE  NEGRO  WARD 

Then  next  I  seemed  to  hear  the  drums  — 

For  I  had  fainted  for  his  eyes 

That  stared  with  such  a  wide  surprise, 

As  the  lids  fell  apart  they  stared, 

As  if  they  saw  what  to  behold 

Had  startled  his  poor  soul  which  fared 

Where  it  would  not.     I  heard  the  drums, 

The  bugle  next,  lay  there  so  faint 

With  Parker's  eyes  still  in  my  view, 

Like  bubble  motes  which  flit  and  paint 

Themselves  upon  the  heaven's  blue. 

An  orderly  had  mailed  meanwhile 

That  letter,  to  you,  there  I  lay 

Too  weak  to  write  again,  unsay 

What  I  had  written. 

Down  the  aisle, 

Between  our  beds  a  step  I  heard, 
A  voice :     "  Our  order's  here,  wre  leave 
In  half  an  hour  for  France."     I  stirred 
Like  a  dead  thing,  could  scarce  conceive 
What  tragedy  was  come.     No  chance 
To  write  you  or  to  telegraph. 
In  twelve  hours  more,  as  in  a  trance 
I  looked  from  Ellis  Island,  where 
My  chums  could  gayly  talk  and  laugh. 
In  two  hours  more  we  sailed  for  France. 
All  this  \vas  hard,  but  still  to  bear 
The  knowledge  of  you,  your  despair, 


STARVED  ROCK 

Or  change,  or  bitterness,  if  you  thought 
That  letter  came  from  me,  was  wrought 
Out  of  a  heart  that  could  not  stake 
Its  own  blood  for  your  sake. 

I  will  come  back  to  you  at  length 
If  I  but  live  and  have  the  strength. 
How  will  you  like  me  with  hair  white, 
And  wasted  cheeks,  deep  lined  and  pale? 
It  all  began  that  dreadful  night 
Of  Parker's  death,  the  strain  and  fright, 
The  letter  it  seemed  best  to  write  — 
From  then  to  now  I  have  been  frail. 
Our  ship  just  missed  a  submarine, 
And  here  the  hardships,  gas-gangrene, 
The  horrors  and  the  deaths  have  stripped 
My  life  of  everything.     Is  it  to  prove 
For  duty,  you,  though  bloody-lipped, 
And  fallen  my  unconquerable  love 
For  country  and  for  you  through  all, 
Whatever  fate  befall? 

What  is  my  soul's  great  anguish  for? 
For  what  this  tragedy  of  war? 
For  what  the  fate  that  says  to  us : 
Part  hands  and  be  magnanimous? 
For  what  the  judgment  which  decrees 
The  mother  love  in  me  to  cease? 
For  separation,  hopeless  miles 
Of  land  and  water  us  between? 

[42] 


THE  NEGRO  WARD 

For  what  the  devil  force  that  smiles 
At  man's  immedicable  pain? 

I  have  not  lost  my  faith  in  God. 
Life  has  grown  dark,  I  only  say: 
Dear  God,  my  feet  have  lost  the  way. 
Religion,  wisdom  do  not  give 
A  place  to  stand,  a  space  to  live. 
I  have  not  lost  my  faith  in  love, 
That  somehow  it  must  rise  above 
The  clouds  of  earth,  I  still  can  rest 
In  dreams  sometimes  upon  your  breast. 
But,  oh,  it  seems  sometimes  a  play 
Where  gods  are  picking  a  bouquet: 
The  blossom  of  war,  my  soul  or  yours 
More  fragrant  grown  as  it  endures.  .  .  , 


[43] 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE 

Homer  saw  nations,  armies,  multitudes  — 
You  saw  them  in  the  intimate  interludes 
Of  Brutus'  soul  at  midnight  in  a  tent 
When  the  infection  festers  the  event. 
Ulysses'  course  is  changed  by  the  sea's  trough. 
You  saw  an  epoch  when  a  hat  blows  off. 
Orestes  fled  the  Furies,  won  his  peace 
Through  Apollo  in  old  Greece. 
But  who  unbars  the  mouse  traps  of  your  world, 
Or  kills  the  ambushed  serpent  where  it's  curled? 
Your  Fates  return,  and  Fortinbras  draws  in 
On  Hamlet's  impotence  and  Gertrude's  sin. 
All  oceans  in  a  raindrop,  drops  of  dew 
Containing  perfect  heavens  starred  and  blue; 
Angels  who  mother  Calibans,  and  hopes 
Are  of  your  vision  —  great  mosaics  hued 
With  thoughts  of  princes,  poets,  misanthropes, 
Reveal  their  minute  colors  closer  viewed. 
Atomies,  maggots,  worms  or  gilded  flies, 
Nothing  too  small  or  foul  is  for  your  eyes. 
You  made  a  culture  of  dreams  lost  or  won 
Like  Robert  Browning,  Emily  Dickinson. 
You  looked  in  heaven  when  the  lightning  shone, 
Then  saw  a  fairy's  whip  of  cricket  bone. 
For  gods  and  men  bacteriologist 

[44] 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE 

Of  spiritual  microbes  hidden  which  subsist 

In  moments  of  red  joy  —  calm  satirist 

Of  worlds  forsaken  for  a  woman's  hair, 

Kings  slain,  states  crumbled,  heroes  false  or  fair, 

The  madness  of  the  flesh,  love  on  the  wrack, 

A  white  maid  married  to  a  soldier  black. 

Incests,   adulteries  and  secret  sins, 

The  fall  of  monarchs  and  of  manikins. 

All  men  at  last  a  rattling  empty  pod, 

All  men  destroyed  like  flies  for  sport  of  God. 

All  Life  at  last  an  idiot's  furious  tale  — 

You  had  the  strength  to  say  this  and  not  quail ! 

For  you  what  were  the  unities,  the  rules 

Of  Plautus,  Corneille  or  the  Grecian  schools? 

Flame  through  a  pipe  will  sing,   perhaps,  when  blown 

Against  the  craftsman's  silver,  but  the  tone 

Of  worlds  in  conflagration,  that's  to  be 

The  sacred  fire  with  wings  outspread  and  free, 

Wherein  an  Athens  falls,  a  Sidon  stands, 

And  where  a  freezing  clown  may  warm  his  hands. 

If  you  could  empty  out  a  tiger's  brain 

And  wire  up  its  spinal  cord  again 

To  Sappho's  brain,  it  would  no  doubt  devour 

The  tiger's  nerves  and  sinews  in  an  hour. 

Such  muscles  and  such  bones  could  not  endure 

The  avid  hunger  of  a  fire  so  pure. 

And  you,  Will  Shakspeare,  spirit  sensitive, 

You  lived  past  fifty,  that  is  long  to  live 

And  feed  a  flame  like  yours,  and  let  the  flame 

[45] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Remake  itself  and  lap  at  flesh  and  frame. 

I  say  with  Jesus,  wisdom's  eyes  are  blind 

To  seek  a  poet  out  and  think  to  find 

A  slender  reed  that's  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Come  cyclops  of  the  counter,  millionaires, 

Lawyers  and  statesmen  in  the  world's  affairs, 

And  thin  away  like  flesh  which  acid  eats 

Under  the  passion  even  of  John  Keats. 

But  if  you  felt  and  saw  love,  agony, 

As  Shakspeare  knew  them  you  would  quickly  die. 

There  is  no  tragedy  like  the  gift  of  song, 

It  keeps  you  mortal  but  demands  you  strong; 

It  gives  you  God's  eyes  blurred  with  human  tears, 

And  crowns  a  thousand  lives  in  fifty  years. 

Enter  the  breathless  silence  where  God  dwells, 

See  and  record  all  heavens  and  all  hells! 


[46] 


FOR  A  PLAY 

Love  began  with  both  of  them  so  gently 
Meeting,   neither  thought  nor  looked  intently. 
Afterward  her  breath  invoked  the  fire  — 
Breath  to  breath  set  burning  their  desire. 

Is  there  aught  in  flesh  or  is  it  spirit 
Conscious  of  its  kindred  soul  when  near  it? 
Woe  to  flesh  or  soul  that's  wholly  wakened 
While  the  other's  soul-depths  lie  unshakened! 

How  could  she  give  him  all  sacred  blisses, 
Long  embraces,  in  the  darkness  kisses, 
If  she  was  not  his,  all  else  forgetting, 
Lovers  gone  and  other  loves'  regretting? 

That  was  just  the  place  her  gold  was  leadened  • 
Flesh  there  too  alive,  to  him  all  deadened. 
She  could  harp  not  to  his  playing  wholly, 
Yet  his  heart  strings  trembled  for  her  solely. 

So  this  love  play  hastened  to  the  curtain. 
Each  one  spoke  his  lines  in  accents  certain, 
While  at  times  behind  the  wings  her  glances 
Warmed  the  prompter's  treasonous  advances. 

[47] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Is  there  greater  martydom  than  this  is? 
You  have  staked  your  soul  where  the  abyss  is. 
You  have  given  all  —  oh  sorry  barter 
You  have  lit  the  fire  for  you  the  martyr. 

You  will  still  love  on,  or  turn  to  hating, 

Days  depart,  your  heart  stays  in  its  waiting, 

Where's  the  blame?     She  gave  her  heart's  half  measure, 

All  she  had,  for  all  your  soul's  full  treasure. 

What's  the  half  to  keep,  could  you  achieve  it? 
What  your  treasure  if  you  could  retrieve  it? 
Never  more  shall  you  again  bestow  it  ... 
Now  you  have  a  song  if  you're  a  poet. 

Now  you're  ever  dumb  if  song's  denied  you, 
You  shall  be  more  dumb  than  all  beside  you, 
While  your  soul  is  shaken  by  its  torrents  — 
Dante  songless  in  a  Dante  Florence. 

Age  shall  not  make  strong,  nor  deeper  learning. 
Grief  grows  clearer  with  your  eye's  discerning. 
Pass  the  years,  but  oh  the  soil  grows  faster  — 
Richer  for  the  roots  of  your  disaster. 

Ends  the  play  —  for  what  is  life  but  dying? 
What  is  love  but  fire  forever  crying? 
What  your  soul  but  love's  pure  carbon  fuel  ? 
Love  and  life  make  ashes  of  the  jewel! 

[48] 


CHICAGO 


On  the  gray  paper  of  this  mist  and  fog 

With  dust  for  the  erasure  and  with  smoke 

For  drawing  crayons,  be  this  charcoal  scrawl : 

The  breed  of  Gog  in  the  kingdom  of  Magog, 

Skyscrapers,   helmeted,  stand  sentinel 

Amid  the  obscuring  fumes  of  coal  and  coke, 

Raised  by  enchantment  out  of  the  sand  and  bog. 

This  sky-line,  the  Sierras  of  the  lake, 

Cuts  with  dulled  teeth, 

Which   twist  and   break, 

The  imponderable  and  drifting  steam. 

And   restlessly  beneath 

This  man-created  mountain  chain, 

Like  the  flow  of  a  prairie  river 

Endlessly  by  day  and  night,  forever 

Along  the  boulevards  pedestrians  stream 

In  a  shuffle  like  dancers  to  a  low  refrain: 

Forever  by  day  and  night 

Pursuing  as  of  old  the  lure  of  delight, 

And  the  ghosts  of  pleasure  or  pain. 

Their  rhythmic  feet  sound  like  the  falling  of  rain, 

Or  the  hush  of  the  waves,  when  the  roar 

Is  blown  by  a  wind  off  shore. 

[49] 


STARVED  ROCK 


ii 

From  a  tower  like  a  mountain  promontory 

The  cesspool  of  a  railroad  lies  to  view 

Fouling  the  marble  of  the  city's  glory: 

A  crapulous  sluice  of  garbage  and  of  cars 

Where  engines  rush  and  whistle,  smudge  the  blue 

With  filth  like  the  trail  of  slugs. 

It  is  a  trench  of  steel  which  bars 

Free  access  to  the  common  shore,  and  hugs 

In  a  coil  of  lazar  arms  the  boulevard. 

Cattle  and  hogs  delivered  here  for  slaughter 

Corrupt  the  loveliness  of  the  water  front. 

They  low  and  grunt, 

Switched  back  and   forth  within  the  tangled  yard. 

But  from  this  tower  the  amethystine  water, 

The  water  of  jade  or  slate, 

Is  visible  with  its  importunate 

Gestures  against  the  sky  to  still  retreats 

In  Michigan,  of  quiet  woods  and  hills 

Beyond  the  simmering  passion  of  these  streets, 

And  all  their  endless  ills.  . 


in 

But  over  the  switch  yard  stands  the  Institute 
Guarded  by  lions  on  the  avenue, 
Colossal  lions  standing  for  attack; 
Between  whose  feet  luminous  and  resolute 
Children  of  the  city  passing  through 

[50] 


CHICAGO 

To  palettes,  compasses,  the  demoniac 

Spirit  of  the  city  shall  subdue. 

Lions  are  in  the  loop  and  jackals  too. 

They  have  no  trainers  but  the  alderman, 

Who  uses  them  to  hunt  with,  but  in  time 

The  city  shall  behold  its  nobler  plan 

Achieved  by  hands  that  rhyme, 

Workers  who  architect  and  build, 

And  out  of  thought  its  substance  re-arrange, 

Till  all  its  prophecies  shall  be  fulfilled. 

Through  numbers,  science  and  art 

The  city  shall  know  change, 

And  win  dominion  over  water  and  light, 

The  cyclop's  master}'  of  the  mart; 

The  devils  overcome, 

Which  stalk  the  squalid  ways  by  night 

Of  poverty  and  the  slum, 

Where  the  crook  is  spawned,  the  burglar  and  the  bum. 

These  youths  who  pass  the  lions  shall  assuage 

The  city's  thirst  and  hunger, 

And  save  it  from  the  wastage  and  the  wage 

Of  the  demagogue,  the  precinct  monger. 


IV 

This  is  the  city  of  great  doges  hidden 
In  guarded  offices  and  country  places. 
The  city  strives  against  the  things  forbidden 
By  the  doges,  on  whose  faces 
The  city  at  large  never  looks; 

[5.] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Doges  who  could  accomplish  if  they  would 

In  a  month  the  city's  beauty  and  good. 

Yet  this  city  in  a  hundred  years  has  risen 

Out  of  a  haunt  of  foxes,  wolves  and  rooks, 

And  breaks  asunder  now  the  bars  of  the  prison 

Of  dead  days  and  dying.     It  has  spread 

For  many  a  rood  its  boundaries,  like  the  sprawled 

And  fallen  Hephaestos,  and  has  tenanted 

Its  neighborhoods  increasing  and  unwalled 

With  peoples  from  all  lands. 

From  Milwaukee  Avenue  to  the  populous  mills 

Of  South  Chicago,  from  the  Sheridan  Drive 

Through  forests  where  the  water  smiles 

To  Harlem  for  miles  and  miles. 

It  reaches  out  its  hands, 

Powerful  and  alive 

With  dreams  to  touch  tomorrow,  which  it  wills 

To  dawn  and  which  shall  dawn.  .  .  . 

And  like  lights  that  twinkle  through  the  stench 

And  putrid  mist  of  abattoirs, 

Great  souls  are  here,  separate  and  withdrawn, 

Companionless,  whom  darkness  cannot  quench. 

Seeing  they  are  the  chrysalis  which  must  feed 

Upon  its  own  thoughts  and  the  life  to  be, 

Its  flight  among  the  stars. 

Beauty  is  here,  like  half  protected  flowers, 

Blooms  and  will  cast  its  multiplying  seed, 

Until  one  mass  of  color  shall  succeed 

The  shaley  places  of  these  arid  hours. 

[52] 


CHICAGO 


Chicago!  by  this   inland  sea 

In  the  land  of  Lincoln,  in  the  state 

Of  souls  who  held  the  nation's  fate, 

City  both  old  and  young,  I  consecrate 

Your  future  years  to  truth  and  liberty. 

Be  this  the  record  frail  and  incomplete 

Of  one  who  saw  you,  mingled  with  the  masses 

Along  these  magical  mountain  passes 

With  restless  yet  with  hopeful  feet. 

Could  they  return  to  see  you  who  have  slept 

These  fifty  years,  who  laid  your  first  foundations! 

And  oh !  could  we  behold  you  who  have  kept 

Their  promises  for  you,  when  new  generations 

Shall  walk  this  boulevard  made  fair 

In  chiseled  marble,  looking  at  the  lake 

Of  clearer  water  under  a  bluer  air. 

We  who  shall  sleep  then  nor  awake, 

Have  left  the  labor  to  you  and  the  care 

Ask  great  fulfillment,  for  ourselves  a  prayer! 


[53] 


THE  WEDDING  FEAST 

Said  the  chief  of  the  marriage  feast  to  the  groom, 

Whence  is  this  blood  of  the  vine? 
Men  serve  at  first  the  best,  he  said, 

And  at  the  last,  poor  wine. 

Said  the  chief  of  the  marriage  feast  to  the  groom, 
When  the  guests  have  drunk  their  fill 

They  drink  whatever  wine  you  serve, 
Nor  know  the  good  from  the  ill. 

How  have  you  kept  the  good  till  now 

When  our  hearts  nor  care  nor  see? 
Said  the  chief  of  the  marriage  feast  to  the  groom, 

Whence  may  this  good  wine  be? 

Said  the  chief  of  the  marriage  feast,  this  wine 

Is  the  best  of  all  by  far. 
Said  the  groom,  there  stand  six  jars  without 

And  the  wine  fills  up  each  jar. 

Said  the  chief  of  the  marriage  feast,  we  lacked 

Wine  for  the  wedding  feast. 
How  comes  it  now  one  jar  of  wine 

To  six  jars  is  increased? 

[54] 


THE  WEDDING  FEAST 

Who  makes  our  cup  to  overflow  ? 

And  who  has  the  wedding  blest? 
Said  the  groom  to  the  chief  of  the  feast,  a  stranger 

Is  here  as  a  wedding  guest. 

Said  the  groom  to  the  chief  of  the  wedding  feast, 

Moses  by  power  divine 
Smote  water  at  Meribah  from  the  rock, 

But  this  man  makes  us  wine. 

Said  the  groom  to  the  chief  of  the  wedding  feast, 

Elisha  by  power  divine 
Made  oil  for  the  widow  to  sell  for  bread, 

But  this  man,  wedding  wine. 

He  changed  the  use  of  the  jars,  he  said, 

From  an  outward  rite  and  sign: 
Where  water  stood  for  the  washing  of  feet, 

For  heart's  delight  there's  wine. 

So  then  'tis  he,  said  the  chief  of  the  feast, 

Who  the  wedding  feast  has  blest? 
Said  the  groom  to  the  chief  of  the  feast,  the  stranger 

Is  the  merriest  wedding  guest. 

He  laughs  and  jests  with  the  wedding  guests, 

He  drinks  with  the  happy  bride. 
Said  the  chief  of  the  wedding  feast  to  the  groom, 

Go  bring  him  to  my  sidi*. 

[55] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  came  up, 

And  his  body  was  fair  and  slim. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  came  up, 

And  his  mother  came  with  him. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  stands  with  the  dancers 

And  his  mother  by  him  stands. 
The  bride  kneels  down  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

And  kisses  his  rosy  hands. 

The  bridegroom  kneels  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

And  Jesus  blesses  the  twain. 
I  go  a  way,  said  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 

Of  darkness,  sorrow  and  pain. 

After  the  wedding  feast  is  labor, 

Suffering,  sickness,  death, 
And  so  I  make  you  wine  for  the  wedding, 

Said  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

My  heart  is  with  you,  said  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
As  the  grape  is  one  with  the  vine. 

Your  bliss  is  mine,  said  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
And  so  I  make  you  wine. 

Youth  and  love  I  bless,  said  Jesus, 

Song  and  the  cup  that  cheers. 
The  rosy  hands  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

Are  wet  with  the  young  bride's  tears. 

[56] 


THE  WEDDING  FEAST 

Love  one  another,  said  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 

Ere  cometh  the  evil  of  years. 
The  rosy  hands  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

Are  wet  with  the  bridegroom's  tears. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  goes  with  his  mother, 

The  dancers  are  dancing  again. 
There's  a  woman  who  pauses  without  to  listen, 

'Tis  Mary  Magdalen. 

Forth  to  the  street  a  Scribe  from  the  wedding 

Goes  with  a  Sadducee. 
Said  the  Scribe,  this  shows  how  loose  a  fellow 

Can  come  out  of  Galilee! 


[57] 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON 

By  the  waters  of  Babylon  by  the  sea, 
On  the  sand  where  the  waters  died, 
The  sea  wind  and  the  tide 
Drowned  the  words  you  spoke  to  me. 

The  sea  fell  at  our  feet.     The  sand 
Hushed  the  whispering  waters,  near 
The  babble  of  boats  by  the  pier 
Was  the  ictus  to  the  roar  on  the  strand. 

By  the  waters  of  Babylon  a  grief  to  be, 
The  waiting  ships  in  the  bay, 
Awed  the  words  we  would  say 
Against  the  sound  of  the  sea: 

For  France  was  below  the  waters,  and  the  west 
Behind  me  where  the  rains 
Come  in  November  on  the  window  panes, 
And  the  blast  shakes  the  ruined  nest 

Under  the  dripping  eaves.     What  then  remains 
But  memory  of  the  waters  of  Babylon, 
And  the  ships  like  swan  after  swan, 
Under  the  drone  of  angry  hydroplanes? 

[58] 


BY  THE  WATERS  OF  BABYLON 

By  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  did  not  weep, 
Though  love  comes  and  is  gone, 
As  the  wind  is,  as  waters  drawn 
In  spray  from  the  deep. 

Neither  for  things  foreseen  and  ominous, 
For  newer  hands  that  somewhere  wait 
To  thrill  afresh,  the  reblossomed  fate 
Did  we  surrender  dolorous.  .  .  . 

Change  now  is  yours  beyond  the  waters,  nights 
Of  waiting  and  of  doubt  have  dimmed  desire. 
Our  hands  are  calm  before  the  dying  fire 
Of  lost  delights. 

Babylon  by  the  sea  knows  us  no  more. 
Between  the  surge's  hushes 
When  on  the  sand  the  water  rushes 
There  is  no  voice  of  ours  upon  the  shore. 


[59] 


THE  DREAM  OF  TASSO 

O  Earth  that  walls  these  prison  bars  —  O  Stones 

Which  shut  my  body  in  —  could  I  be  free 

If  these  fell  and  the  grated  door  which  groans 

For  every  back  scourged  hither  oped  for  me? 

Freedom  were  what  to  travel  you,  O  Earth, 

When  my  heart  makes  its  daily  agony? 

And  longing  such  as  mine  cannot  ungirth 

Its  bands  and  its  mortality  o'erleap. 

Our  life  is  love  unsatisfied  from  birth, 

Our  life  is  longing  waking  or  asleep, 

And  mine  has  been  a  vigil  of  quick  pain. 

0  Leonora,  thus  it  is  I  keep 

Grief  in  my  heart  and  weariness  of  brain. 

How  did  I  know  these  chains  and  bars  are  wrought 
Of  frailer  stuff  than  space,  that  I  could  gain 
In  earth  no  respite,  but  a  vision  brought 
The  truth,  O  Leonora?     It  was  this: 

1  dreamed  this  hopeless  love,  so  long  distraught 
Was  never  caged,  but  from  the  first  was  bliss, 
And  moved  like  music  from  the  meeting  hour 
To  the  rapt  moment  of  the  earliest  kiss 
Bestowed  upon  your  hands,  to  gathering  flower 
Of  lips  so  purely  yielded,  the  embrace 
Tender  as  dawn  in  April  when  a  shower 

[60] 


THE  DREAM  OF  TASSO 

Quenches  with  gentleness  each  flowering  place; 
So  were  your  tears  of  gladness  —  so  my  hands 
Which  stroked  your  golden  hair,  your  sunny  face, 
Even  as  flying  clouds  o'er  mountain  lands 
Caress  with  fleeting  love  the  morning  sun. 

Now  I  was  with  you,  and  by  your  commands. 
Your  love  was  mine  at  last  completely  won, 
And  waited  but  the  blossom.     How  you  sang, 
Laughed,  ran  about  your  palace  rooms  and  none 
Closed  doors  against  me,  desks  and  closets  sprang 
To  my  touch  open,  all  your  secrets  lay 
Revealed  to  me  in  gladness  —  and  this  pang 
Which  I  had  borne  in  bitterness  day  by  day 
Was  gone,  nor  could  I  bring  it  back,  or  think 
How  it  had  been,  or  why  —  this  heart  so  gay 
In  sudden  sunshine  could  no  longer  link 
Itself  with  what  it  was. 

Look !     Every  room 

Had  blooms  your  hands  had  gathered  white  and  pink, 
And  drained  from  precious  vases  their  perfume. 
And  fruits  were  heaped  for  me  in  golden  bowls, 
And  tapestries  from  many  an  Asian  loom 
Were  hung  for  me,  and  our  united  souls 
Shone  over  treasure  books  —  how  glad  you  were 
To  listen  to  my  epic,  from  the  scrolls 
Of  Jerusalem,  the  holy  sepulcher. 
Still  as  a  shaft  of  light  you  sat  and  heard 
With  veiled  eyes  which  tears  could  scarcely  blur, 

[61] 


STARVED  ROCK 

But  flowed  upon  your  cheek  with  every  word. 

And  your  hand  reached  for  mine  —  you  did  not  speak, 

But  let  your  silence  tell  how  you  were  stirred 

By  love  for  me  and  wonder !     What  to  seek 

In  earth  and  heaven  more?     Heaven  at  last 

Was  mine  on  earth,  and  for  a  sacred  week 

This  heaven  all  of  heaven. 

So  it  passed 

This  week  with  you  —  you  served  me  ancient  wine. 
We  sat  across  a  table  where  you  cast 
A  cloth  of  chikku,  or  we  went  to  dine 
There  in  the  stately  room  of  heavy  plate. 
Or  tiring  of  the  rooms,  the  day's  decline 
Beheld  us  by  the  river  to  await 
The  evening  planet,  where  in  elfin  mood 
You  whistled  like  the  robin  to  its  mate, 
And  won  its  answering  call.     Then  through  the  wood 
We  wandered  back  in  silence  hand  in  hand, 
And  reached  the  sacred  portal  with  our  blood 
Running  so  swift  no  ripples  stirred  the  sand 
To  figures  of  reflection. 

Once  again 

Within  your  room  of  books,  upon  the  stand 
The  reading  lights  are  brought  to  us,  and  then 
You  read  to  me  from  Plato,  and  my  heart 
Breathes  like  a  bird  at  rest;  the  world  of  men, 
Strife,  hate,  are  all  forgotten  in  this  art 
Of  life  made  perfect.     Or  when  weariness 

[62] 


THE  DREAM  OF  TASSO 

Comes  over  us,  you  dim  the  lamp  and  start 
The  blue  light  back  of  Dante's  bust  to  bless 
Our  twilight  with  its  beauty. 

So  the  time 

Passes  too  quickly  —  our  poor  souls  possess 
Beauty  and  love  a  moment  —  and  our  rhyme 
Which  captures  it,  creates  the  illusion  love 
Has  permanence,  when  even  at  its  prime 
Decay  has  taken  it  from  the  light  above, 
Or  darkness  underneath. 

I  must  recur 

To  our  first  sleep  and  all  the  bliss  thereof. 
How  did  you  first  come  to  me,  how  confer 
On  me  your  beauty?     That  first  night  it  was 
The  blue  light  back  of  Dante,  but  a  blur 
Of  golden  light  our  spirits,  when  you  pass 
Your  hand  across  my  brow,  our  souls  go  out 
To  meet  each  other,  leave  as  wilted  grass 
Our  emptied  bodies.     Then  we  grow  devout, 
And  kneel  and  pray  together  for  the  gift 
Of  love  from  heaven,  and  to  banish  doubt 
Of  change  or  faithlessness.     Then  with  a  swift 
Arising  from  the  prayer  you  disappear. 
I  sleep  meanwhile,  you  come  again  and  lift 
My  head  against  your  bosom,  bringing  near 
A  purple  robe  for  me,  and  say,  "  \\ Var  this, 
And  to  your  chamber  go."     And  thus  I  hear, 
And  leave  you ;  on  my  couch,  where  calm  for  bliss 


STARVED  ROCK 

I  wait  for  you  and  listen,  hear  your  feet 

Whisper  their  secret  to  the  tapestries 

Of  your  ecstatic  coming  —  O  my  sweet ! 

I  touched  your  silken  gown,  where  underneath 

Your  glowing  flesh  was  dreaming,  made  complete 

My  rapture  by  upgathering,  quick  of  breath, 

Your  golden  ringlets  loosened  —  and  at  last 

Hold  you  in  love's  embrace  —  would  it  were  Death!  . 

For  soon  'twixt  love  and  sleep  the  night  was  past, 

And  dawn  cob-webbed  the  chamber.     Then  I  heard 

One  faintest  note  and  all  was  still  —  the  vast 

Spherule  of  heaven  wTas  pecked  at  by  a  bird 

As  it  were  to  break  the  sky's  shell,  let  the  light 

Of  morning  flood  the  fragments  scattered,  stirred 

By  breezes  of  the  dawn  with  passing  night. 

We  woke  together,  heard  together,  thrilled 

With  speechless  rapture!     Were  your  spirit's  plight 

As  mine  is  with  this  vision,  had  I  willed 

To  torture  you  with  absence?     Would  I  save 

Your  spirit  if  its  anguish  could  be  stilled 

Only  among  the  worms  that  haunt  the  grave? 

My  dream  goes  on  a  little:     Day  by  day, 

These  seven  days  we  lived  together,  gave 

Our  spirits  to  each  other.     With  dismay 

You  watched  my  hour's  departure.     On  you  crept 

Light  shadows  after  moments  sunny,  gay. 

But  when  the  hour  was  come,  you  sat  and  wept, 

And  said  to  me:     "I  hear  the  rattling  clods 

Upon  the  coffin  of  our  love."     You  stepped 


THE  DREAM  OF  TASSO 

And  stood  beside  the  casement,  said  "  A  god's 

Sarcophagus  this  room  will  be  as  soon 

As  you  have  gone,  and  mine  shall  be  the  rod's 

Bitterness  of  memory  both  night  and  noon 

Amid  the  silence  of  this  palace."     So 

I  spoke  and  said,  "  If  you  would  have  the  boon  — 

0  Leonora,  do  I  live  to  know 

This  hope  too  passionate  made  consummate?  — 

Yet  if  it  be  I  shall  return,  nor  go 

But  to  return  to  you,  and  make  our  fate 

Bound  fast  for  life."     How  happy  was  your  smile, 

Your  laughter  soon, —  and  then  from  door  to  gate 

1  passed  and  left  you,  to  be  gone  awhile 
Around  Ferrara. 

In  three  days,  it  seemed, 
I  came  again,  and  as  I  walked  each  mile 
Counting  to  self  —  my  feet  lagged  as  I  dreamed  — 
And  said  ten  miles,  nine  miles,  eight  miles,  at  last 
One  mile,  so  many  furlongs,  then  I  dreamed 
Your  reading  lamps  were  lighted  for  me,  cast 
Their  yellow  beams  upon  the  mid-night  air. 
But  oh  my  heart  which  stopped  and  stood  aghast 
To  see  the  lamp  go  out  and  note  the  glare 
Of  blue  light  set  behind  the  Dante  mask! 
Who  wore  my  robe  of  purple  false  and  fair? 
Who  drank  your  precious  vintage  from  the  flask 
Roman  and  golden  whence  I  drank  so  late? 
Who  held  you  in  his  arms  and  thus  could  a>k? 
Receive  your  love?     Mother  of  God!     What  fate 


STARVED  ROCK 

Was  mine  beneath  the  darkness  of  that  sky, 
There  at  your  door  who  could  not  leave  or  wait, 
And  heard  the  bird  of  midnight's  desolate  cry? 
And  sawr  at  last  the  blue  light  quenched,  and  saw 
A  taper  lighted  in  my  chamber  —  why 
This  treachery,  Leonora?     Why  withdraw 
The  love  you  gave,  or  eviler,  lead  me  here, 

0  sorceress,  before  whom  heaven's  law 
Breaks  and  is  impotent  —  whose  eyes  no  tear 
Of  penitence  shall  know,  whose  spirit  fares 
Free,  without  consequence,  as  a  child  could  sear 
Its  fellow's  hands  with  flame,  or  unawares, 

Or  with  premeditation,  and  then  laugh  and  turn 
Upon  its  play.     For  you,  light  heart,  no  snares 
Or  traps  of  conscience  wait,  who  thus  could  spurn 
A  love  invited. 

Thus  about  your  lawn 

1  listened  till  the  stars  had  ceased  to  burn, 
But  when  I  saw  the  imminence  of  the  dawn 
And  heard  our  bird  cry,  I  could  stand  no  more, 
My  heart  broke  and  I  fled  and  wandered  on 
Down  through  the  valley  by  the  river's  shore. 
For  when  the  bird  cried,  did  you  wake  with  him? 
Did  you  two  gaze  as  we  had  gazed  before 
Upon  that  blissful  morning?     I  was  dim 

Of  thought  and  spirit,  by  the  river  lay 
Watching  the  swallows  over  the  water  skim, 
And  plucking  leaves  from  weeds  to  turn  or  stay 
The  madness  of  my  life's  futility, 

[66] 


THE  DREAM  OF  TASSO 

Grown  blank  as  that  terrific  dawn  —  till  day 
Flooded  upon  me,  noon  came,  what  should  be? 
Where  should  I  go?     What  prison  chains  could  rest 
So  heavily  on  the  spirit,  as  that  free, 
But  vast  and  ruined  world? 

O  arrowed  breast 

Of  me,  your  Tasso!     And  you  came  and  drew 
The  arrows  out  which  kept  the  blood  repressed, 
And  let  my  wounds  the  freer  bleed:     'Twas  you 
By  afternoon  who  walked  upon  an  arm 
More  lordly  than  mine  is.     You  stopped  nor  knew, 
I  saw  him  take  your  body  lithe  and  warm 
Close  to  his  breast,  yes,  even  where  we  had  stood 
Upon  our  day,  embraced  —  feed  on  the  charm 
Of  widened  eyes  and  swiftly  coursing  blood. 
I  watched  you  walk  away  and  disappear 
In  the  deep  verdure  of  the  river  wood, 
Too  faint  to  rise  and  fly,  crushed  by  the  fear 
Of  madness,  sudden  death! 

This  was  my  dream, 

From  which  I  woke  and  saw  again  the  sheer 
Walls  of  my  prison,  which  no  longer  seem 
The  agony  they  did,  even  though  the  cell 
Is  the  hard  penalty  and  the  cursed  extreme 
Hate  in  return  for  love.     But  oh  you  hell, 
You  boundless  earth  to  wander  in  and  brood  — 
Great  prison  house  of  grief  in  which  to  dwell, 
Remembering  love  forgotten,   pride  subdued, 

[67] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  love  desired  and  found  and  lost  again. 
That  is  the  prison  which  no  fortitude 
Can  suffer,  and  the  never  dying  pain 
From  which  the  spacious  luring  of  the  earth 
Tempts  flight  for  spirit  freedom,  but  in  vain! 

Ah  Leonora!     Even  from  our  birth 

We  build  our  prisons!     What  are  walls  like  these 

Beside  the  walls  of  memory,  or  the  dearth 

Of  hope  in  all  this  life,  the  agonies 

Of  spiritual  chains  and  gloom?     I  suffer  less, 

Imprisoned  thus,  than  if  the  memories 

Of  love  bestowed  and  love  betrayed  should  press 

Round  my  unresting  steps.     And  I  send  up 

To  heaven  thanks  that  spared  that  bitterness, 

That  garden  of  the  soul's  reluctant  cup! 


[68] 


THE  CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN 

He  hears  his  father  pray  when  he's  a  boy: 
"  Jesus  we  know,  the  Savior,  and  we  ask, 
In  Thy  great  plenitude  of  mercy,  grace, 
Forgiveness  for  our  waywardness;  we  invoke 
Thy   blessing,   and   may    righteousness   and   peace 
Prevail  in  all  the  earth.     Meekly  we  rest 
Upon  the  precious  promise  of  Thy  word. 
Gather  us  home  with  Thine  own  people,  Lord, 
And  all  the  glory  shall  be  Thine." 

So  much 

To  show  the  father's  prayer  which  he  heard. 
The  father  is  a  saint,  a  quietist, 
Save  that  he  has  his  hatreds,  strong  enough : 
Turns  face  of  stone  and  silence  to  the  men 
Whose  ways  of  life  are  laid  in  sin,  he  thinks 
And  calls  them  dirty  dogs  and  scalawags, 
Because  they  vote  a  ticket  he  dislikes, 
Or  love  a  game  of  cards,  a  glass  of  beer, 
Or  go  to  see  the  County  Fair,  where  once 
A  drunken  bus-man  drives  upon  a  boy 
And  kills  him.     Then  the  saint  is  all  aflame, 
And  tries  to  have  the  fair  put  out  for  good. 

[69] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  so  the  son,  who  will  become  at  last 

The   Christian   Statesman,   hears   his   father  pray, 

And  prays  himself,  and  takes  the  lesson  in 

Of  godliness,   the  Bible  as  the  source 

Of  truth  infallible,  divine. 

This  boy 

Is  blessed  with  health,  a  body  without  flaw, 
His  forehead  is  a  little  low,  perhaps, 
And  has  a  transverse  dent  which  keeps  the  brain 
Shaped  to  the  skull ;  a  perfect  brain  is  sphered, 
As  perfect  things  are  circles;  but  a  brain 
Something  below  perfection,  which  is  fed 
By  a  great  body  and  an  obdurate  will, 
And  sense  of  moral  purpose  will  go  far, 
Farther  than  better  brains  in  craft  of  states, 
For  some  years  anyway,  if  a  voice  be  given 
Which  reaches  to  the  largest  crowded  room, 
To  speak  the  passionate  moralities 
Which  come  into  that  brain  creased  straight  across 
The  forehead  with  a  dent. 

He  goes  to  school, 

And  from  the  first  believes  he  has  a  mission 
To  make  the  world  a  better  place,  avows 
His  mission  in  the  world,  bends  all  his  strength 
To  make  his  armor  ready:  health  of  body, 
A  blameless  life,  hard  studies,  practices 
With  word  and  voice. 

[70] 


THE  CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN 

It  is  a  country  college 

Where  he  matriculates  —  the  father  wished  it; 
A  college  where  the  boys  are  mostly  poor, 
And  waste  no  time,  have  not  the  cash  to  buy 
Delight,  if  they  desired. 

He  ruminates 

Upon  the  pebbles  and  Demosthenes, 
And  sets  his  will  to  be  an  orator 
That  he  may  herald  truth  and  save  the  world. 
After  much  toil,  re-writing,  he  delivers 
A  speech  he  calls,  "  Ich  Dien,"  and  loses  out 
Against  a  youth  who  speaks  on  Liberty. 
And  then  he  uses  Gladstone  for  his  theme, 
The  Christian  Statesman;  for  exordium 
Tells  of  the  ermine  which  will  die  before 
It  suffers  soilure  —  that  was  Gladstone  —  yes! 
But  still  he  cannot  win  the  prize;  a  boy 
Who  talks  about  the  labors  of  Charles  Darwin, 
His  suffering  and  sacrifice,  is  awarded 
The  prize  this  time  —  a  boy  who  had  the  wit 
To  speak  in  praise  of  Darwin's  virtues  —  saying 
Nothing  about  his  hellish  doctrines,  thus 
Winning  the  cautious  judges  to  his  theme. 

But  is  our  little  Gladstone  crushed,  dismayed? 
He  plucks  up  further  strength  and  takes  a  hint: 
A  larger  subject  may  bring  down  the  prize. 
He  thinks  of  Thomas  Jefferson  —  but  then 
Jefferson  was  a  deist,  took  the  Bible 

[71] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  cut  out  everything  but  Jesus'  words. 
"  Yet  I  can  speak  on  what  was  good  in  him, 
His  work  for  liberty,  the  Declaration, 
And  close  my  eyes  to  all  his  heterodoxy." 
Then  something  of  this  plan  crept  like  a  snake 
Into  his  brain,  he  petted  it  with  hands: 
Be  ye  as  wise  as  serpents,  and  as  doves 
Harmless,  he  smiled  —  and  went  to  work  again, 
And  won  the  prize. 

And  now  he  has  stepped  forth 
Into  the  world's  arena  to  become 
A  Savior,  an  evangel,  as  he  thinks, 
In  truth  a  pest.     He  runs  for  Congress  first 
And  when  his  manager  takes  out  a  check 
And  shows  him,  given  by  the  local  brewery, 
Another  check  a  bank  gives,  he  maintains 
A  smiling  silence,  thinking  to  himself, 
Jesus  accepted  gifts  from  publicans, 
And  if  I  am  elected  then  this  money, 
However  dirty,  will  be  purified 
By  what  I  do. 

But  then  he  was  defeated. 

He  thinks  the  banks  and  breweries  did  the  trick. 
In  truth  they  knew  the  Christian  Statesman,  knew 
The  oleaginous  smile  and  silver  voice 
Concealed  the  despot.     Did  he  scourge  them  then? 
Well,  scarcely  then  —  he  wrote  a  public  letter 
And  said  the  people  had  decided  it. 

[72] 


THE  CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN 

And  what  the  people  said  was  law.     He  nerved 
His  purpose  for  another  trial  —  that  body 
So  big  and  flawless  could  not  be  exhausted  — 
That  voice  still  carried  to  the  farthest  corner, 
That  oily  smile  deceived  the  multitude 
That  he  was  hurt,  embittered,  only  waited 
To  see  if  body,  voice  and  oily  smile 
Could  win  by  any  means;  if  not,  the  scourge 
Would   be  brought   forth,   the  smile  dropped,   the  com 
plaints 

Against  the  breweries,  what  not,  opened  up, 
Unmasked.     For  when  your  hope  is  gone,   you're   free 
To  scold  and  tell  your  bitterness. 

And  then 

He  made  a  third  and  last  attempt,  though  edging 
Toward  the  sophistry  that  moral  questions 
Make  those  political,  and  by  this  means 
Trying  to  win  the  churches.     Still  he  stuck 
To  matters  economic,   as  before 
Took  what  the  breweries  gave  to  help  his  cause, 
His  campaign  fund.     By  this  time  many  more 
Had  found  him  out,  and  knew  him  for  a  voice 
And  tireless  body  nourishing  a  brain 
As  mediocre  as  the  world  contained, 
And  only  making  louder  noise  because 
Of  body  strong  and  voice  mellifluous. 
They  put  him  down  for  good;  the  Christian  Statesman 
Had  cause  to  think  he  was  no  statesman,  or 
No  Christian,  or  the  electorate  not  Christian. 

[73] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  so  he  took  the  mask  off,  dropped  the  smile, 
And  let  his  mouth  set  like  a  concrete  crack 
And  went  about  to  punish  men,  while  seeming 
To  save  the  world. 

Out  of  that  indentation, 
That  fosse  of  mediocrity,  came  up 
A  crocodile  with  wagging  tail  upreared, 
And  smile  toothed  to  the  gullet  —  it  was  this : 
Questions  political  are  moral  questions, 
And  moral  questions  are  political, 
And  terms  convertible  are  equipollent, 
And  wholly  true.     Therefore,  I  rise  to  preach 
To  moral  America,  draw  audiences 
In  churches,  of  the  churches.     If  I  win 
Majorities  upon  —  no  matter  what  — 
A  law  will  blossom;  as  all  moral  questions 
Are  equally  political,  procure 
For  their  adoption  the  majority. 
Upon  this  fortress  I  can  stand  and  shoot  — 
Who  can  attack  me,  since  I  seek  for  self 
Nothing,  but  for  my  country  righteousness? 
And  as  an  instrument  of  God  I  punish 
My  enemies  as  well. 

Who  are  my  enemies? 
The  intelligencia,  as  they  call  themselves, 
Who  flaunt  the  Bible  wholly  or  in  part, 
Or  try  to  say  that  Darwin's  evolution 
Honors  the  Deity  more  than  Genesis. 

[74] 


THE  CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN 

Who  arc  my  enemies?     The  thinkers,  yes, 

The  strivers  for  a  higher  culture,  yes, 

The  scorners  of  old  fashioned  ways,  the  things 

Really  American !  —  I  know  the  crowd  — 

That  smart  minority  I  overwhelm, 

Blot  out,  drown  out,  by  massing  under  me 

The  great  majority,  the  common  folk, 

Believers  in  the  Bible  —  first  for  them ! 

And  on  the  way  the  vile  saloon  I  crush, 

The  abominable  brewer}'  —  then  I  take  away 

From  banqueters  and  diners,  diners  out, 

The  seekers  after  happiness,  not  God, 

The  cocktail  and  the  wine  they  love  so  well. 

This  is  a  moral  question,  being  so 

Is  also  a  political  —  the  majority 

Can  do  what  they  desire.     I  am  consistent, 

For  from   the  first   I've  preached   the  people's  rule, 

Abided  by  the  people's  voice  and  taken 

Defeat  with  grace  because  the  people  gave  it. 

So  now  I  say  the  people  have  the  right 

To  pass  upon  all  questions.     As  I  said 

When  starting  as  a  public  man,  the  people 

Could  have  what  Government  they  desired,  in  fact 

A  King,  or  despotism,  if  they  voted  for  it. 

For  all  this  talk  of  rights,  or  realms  of  right, 

Or  individual  preferences,  beliefs 

And  courses  in  the  world  is  swallowed  up 

By  right  of  the  majority  —  the  serpent 

Of  Moses,  so  to  speak,  which  swallowed  up 

All  other  serpents. 

[75] 


STARVED  ROCK 

If  he  thought  so  much 

The   Christian    Statesman    thought   this   way  —  at   least 
He  acted  out  a  part  which  seemed  to  say 
He  analyzed  so  far.     He  went  to  work 
To  make  his  country  just  a  despotism 
Not  governed  by  a  King,  but  by  the  people 
Laying  the  hand  of  law  on  everything 
Most  intimate  and  private,  having  thought 
For  moral  aspects,  as  all  politics 
Are  moral  in  their  essence,  to  repeat. 

Did  not  the  Christian  Statesman  have  revenge 
In  building  his  theocracy,  who  saw 
All  bills  of  right  and  fruit  of  revolution 
Ground  into  mortar,  made  into  a  throne 
For  Demos? 

And  behold  King  Demos  now! 
A  slouch  hat  for  a  crown  upon  his  brow, 
Stuffed  full  of  bacon  and  of  apple  pie, 
The  Christian  Statesman  leaning  on  his  shoulder 
A  tableau  of  familiarity. 

The  Christian  Statesman  having  lost  his  hair 
Betrays  the  Midas  ears  —  the  oily  smile 
Beams  on  the  republic  he  has  overthrown! 


[76] 


THE  LAMENT  OF  SOPHONIA 

You  who  have  wasted  this  June  for  me, 
Bitter  be  the  seed  of  your  love. 

Long  midnights  by  the  sea 
Have  I  waited  for  your  return, 
Counting  the  stars  — 
Bitter  be  the  seed  of  your  love. 

And   as  stars  go  out  in  the  crocus  light  of  dawn, 

As  waters  drip  from  a  failing  fountain, 

So  passed  these  days  of  June. 

As  a  boy  strips  from  a  stalk  of  snap-dragons 

The  perfect  blossoms, 

And  treads  them  into  the  earth, 

So  you  have  taken  the  June  days  from  me  — 

Bitter  be  the  seed  of  your  love. 

On  my  couch  by  the  sea, 

My  golden  curls  loosened, 

Resting  after  the  cool  ablution  of  evening  waters, 

My  body  white  as  whitecaps,  under  the  moon, 

My  eyes  large  as  the  fox's  lurking  in  darkness, 

I  have  waited  for  your  return. 


STARVED  ROCK 

May  the  scourge  of  Asia  mar  your  beautiful  body, 

Beloved ! 

You  have  wasted  my  loveliest  June. 

As  the  unheeding  wind 

Drives  the  falling  cherry  blossoms 

Into  the  purple  waves, 

So  you  have  scattered  my  days  of  June  — 

Bitter  be  the  seed  of  your  love! 

I  have  distilled  henbane  for  you, 

Beloved, 

And  put  it  in  a  crystal  vial. 

The  moon  of  October  will  shine, 

Then  you  will  come  to  me, 

Your  wanderings  and  treasons  finished! 

And  when  you  slip  exhausted  from  my  arms 

I  will  give  you  wine  from  a  golden  cup, 

And  pour  the  henbane  in  it  — 

I  shall  give  you  henbane  for  the  poison  of  defeated 

love; 
I  shall  kiss  your  dead  lips,  Beloved. 

Then  I  shall  drink,  too. 

Our  bodies  shall  feed  the  worms 

As  these  June  days  have  fed  my  writhing  sorrow, 

Beloved  murderer  of  my  June! 


[78] 


AT  DECAPOLIS 
MARK,  CHAP.  V 

i 

THE   ACCUSATION 

I  am  a  farmer  and  live 
Two  miles  from   Decapolis. 
Where  is  the  magistrate?     Tell  me 
Where  the  magistrate  is! 

Here  I  had  made  provision 
For  children  and  wife, 
And  now  I  have  lost  my  all; 
I  am  ruined  for  life. 

I,  a  believer,  too, 
In  the  synagogues. — 
What  is  the  faith  to  me? 
I  have  lost  my  hogs. 

Two  thousand  hogs  as  fine 

As  ever  you  saw, 

Drowned  and  choked  in  the  sea  — 

I  want  the  law! 

They  were  feeding  upon  a  hill 
When  a  strolling  teacher 

[79] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Came  by  and  scared  my  hogs  — 
They  say  he's  a  preacher, 

And  cures  the  possessed  who  haunt 
The  tombs  and  bogs. 
All  right ;  but  why  send  devils 
Into   my   hogs? 

They  squealed   and  grunted  and  ran 
And  plunged  in  the  sea. 
And  the  lunatic  laughed  who  was  healed, 
Of  the  devils  free. 

Devils  or  fright,  no  matter 

A  fig  or  straw. 

Where  is  the  magistrate,  tell  me  — 

I  want  the  law! 

II 

JESUS    BEFORE   MAGISTRATE   AHAZ 

Ahaz,  there  in  the  seat  of  judgment,  hear, 

If  you  have  wit  to  understand  my  plea. 
Swine-devils  are  too  much  for  swine,  that's  clear, 

Poor  man  possessed  of  such  is  partly  free, 

Is  neither  drowned,  destroyed  at  once,  his  chains 

May  pluck  while  running,  howling  through  the  mire 

And  take  a  little  gladness  for  his  pains, 
Some  fury  for  unsatisfied  desire. 

[so] 


AT  DECAPOLIS 

But  hogs  go  mad  at  once.  All  this  I  knew, — 
But  then  this  lunatic  had  rights.  You  grant 

Swine-devils  had  him  in  their  clutch  and  drew 
His  baffled  spirit.  How  significant, 

As  they  were  legion  and  so  named,  the  point 
Is,  life  bewildered,  torn  in  greed  and  wrath. 

Desire  puts  a  spirit  out  of  joint. 

Swine-devils  are  for  swine,  who  have  no  path. 

But  man  with  many  lusts,  what  is  his  way. 
Save  in  confusion,  through  accustomed  rooms? 

He  prays  for  night  to  come,  and  for  the  day 
Amid  the  miry  places  and  the  tombs. 

But  hogs  run  to  the  sea.     And  there's  an  end. 

Would  I  might  cast  the  swinish  demons  out 
From  man  forever.     Yet  the  word  attend. 

The  lesson  of  the  thing  what  soul  can  doubt? 

What  is  the  loss  of  hogs,  if  man  be  saved  ? 

What  loss  of  lands  and  houses,  man  being  free? 
Clothed  in  his  reason  sits  the  man  who  raved, 

Clean  and  at  peace,  your  honor.     Come  and  see. 

Your  honor  shakes  a  frowning  head.     Not  loth, 
Speaking  more  plainly,  deeper  truth  to  draw; 

Do  your  judicial  duty,  yet  I  clothe 

Free  souls  with  courage  to  transgress  the  law 
[81] 


STARVED  ROCK 

By  casting  demons  out  from  self,  or  those 
Like  this  poor  lunatic  whom  your  synagogues 

Would  leave  to  battle  singly  with  his  woes  — 
What  is  a  man's  soul  to  a  drove  of  hogs? 

Which  being  lost,  men  play  the  hypocrite 
And  make  the  owner  chief  in  the  affair. 

You  banish  me  for  witchcraft.     I  submit. 
Work  of  this  kind  awaits  me  everywhere. 

And  into  swine  where  better  they  belong, 
Casting  the  swinish  devils  out  of  men 
The  devils  have  their  place  at  last,  and  then 

The  man  is  healed  who  had  them  —  where's  the  wrong 

Save  to  the  owner?     Well,  your  synagogues 
Make  the  split  hoof  and  chewing  of  the  cud 

The  test  of  lawful  flesh.     Not  so  are  hogs. 
This  rule  has  been  the  statute  from  the  flood. 

Ahaz,  your  judgment  has  a  fatal  flaw. 

Is  it  not  so  with  judges  first  and  last  — 
You  break  the  law  to  specialize  the  law?  — 

This  is  the  devil  that  from  you  I  cast. 


[82] 


WINGED  VICTORY 

Icarus,  Daedalus,  Medea's  dragons, 

Pegasus,  Leonardo,   Swedenborg, 

Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  with  dew-filled  flagons, 

Bacon,  who  schemed  with  chemicals  and  forge, 

Lana,  of  copper  spheres  of  air  exhausted, 

Therefore  made  light  to  rise 

Up  where  the  pathless  ways  are  frosted 

In  the  blue  vitriol  of  the  skies. 

Montgolfier,   Franklin,   von   Zeppelin,   Watt, 

Edison,  an  engine  must  be,  spiral  springs, 

Nor  steam  move  not  these  more  than  condor  wings 

Of  heaven's  Argonaut, 

Gathering  the  sun-set  clouds  for  golden  fleece. 

Santos  Dumont  and  Langley,  over  these 

The  Americans,  the  brothers  Wright. 

America  finds  wings  for  flight. 

At  last  out  of  the  New  World  wings  are  born 

To  wheel  far  up  where  cold  is,  and  a  light 

Dazzling  and  immaculate, 

In  the  heights  where  stands  the  temple  of  the  Morn. 

Winged  Victory  more  beautiful  than  Samothrace's 

For  the  New  World  opening  the  gate 

Of  heaven  at  last,  where  mortals  enter  in 

Unconquerably  and  win 

[8.i  ] 


STARVED  ROCK 

The  great  escape  from  earth,  the  measureless  spaces 

Of  air  across  the  inimical  abyss 

Between  ethereal  precipice  and  precipice. 

Hail!  spirits  of  the  race's 

Courage  to  be  free,  adventurers 

Of  infinite  desire! 

Hail!  seed  of  the  ancient  wars, 

Of  burning  glasses,  catapults,  Greek  fire! 

Hail!  final  conquerors, 

Out  of  whose  vision  greater  vision  springs  — 

America  with  wings! 

The  vulture  lags  behind,  the  Gorgones, 

Revealed  or  ambushed  in  the  thunder  clouds, 

Would  tear  from  heaven  these  audacities 

Of  deathless  spirit,  shatter  them  and  spill 

The  blasphemy  of  genius  from  the  sky. 

Gods  are  you,  flyers,  whom  no  danger  shrouds, 

No  terror  shakes  the  will. 

Gods  are  you  though  you  suffer  and  must  die, 

Men  winged  as  gods  who  fly! 

Borelli,  in  the  centuries  that  are  gone, 

With  feathers  made  him  wings,  but  steel 

Soars  for  the  petrol  demon's  toil, 

Fed  by  the  sap  of  trees  far  under  earth 

In  the  long  eons  past  turned  into  oil. 

The  petrol  demon  in  the  enchanted  coil 

Of  lightning  howls  and  spins  the  invisible  wheel 

Which  had  its  birth 

[84] 


WINGED  VICTORY 

In  the  rapt  vision  of  Archimides. 

Borelli,  in  the  centuries  that  are  gone, 

With  feathers  made  him  wings.     But  now  a  swan, 

A  steel-borne  heetle  cleaves  the  immensities, 

Fed  with  fire  of  amber  and  oil  of  trees, 

And  soars  against  the  sun, 

And  over  mountains,  seas! 

Flight  more  auspicious  than  the  flight  of  cranes 
In  Homer's  Troyland,  or  than  eagles  flying 
Toward  Imaus  when  the  midnight  wanes. 
Victorious  flight!  symbol  of  man  defying 
Low  dungeons  of  the  spirit,  darkness,  chains. 
Flight  beyond  superstition  and  the  reigns 
Of  tyrannies  where  thought  of  man  should  be 
Swift  as  his  thought  is  free. 
Flight  of  an  era  born  to-day 
That  puts  the  past  and  all  its  dead  away. 

Locusts  of  the  new  Jehovah  sent  to  scourge 

All  Pharaohs  who  enslave. 

Hornets  with  multiple  eyes, 

Scorning  surprise, 

And  armed  to  purge 

The  despot  and  the  knave 

Out  of  the  fairer  land  where  men  shall  live, 

Winning  all  things  which  were  so  fugitive 

Of  wisdom,  happiness  and  peace, 

Of  hope,  of  spiritual  release 

[85] 


STARVED  ROCK 

From  fear  of  life,  life's  mean  significance, 
Till  life  be  ordered,  not  a  thing  of  chance. 


The  hopelessness  of  him  who  cried 

Vanity  of  Vanities 

Was  justified, 

But  now  no  longer  must  abide. 

Failure  was  his,  and  failure  filled  the  hours 

Of  our  fathers  in  the  past  —  let  it  depart. 

Triumph  is  come,  and  triumph  must  be  ours. 

The  archangels  of  earth  through  Israel, 

Through  India  and  Greece 

Shall  find  us  wings  for  life  and  for  increase 

Of  living,  and  shall  battle  down  the  hell 

Whose  fires  still  smolder  and  profane. 

Life  and  the  human  heart 

In  living  must  become  the  aeroplane, 

Not  the  yoked  oxen  and  the  cart. 

Let  but  the  thought  of  East  and  West  be  blent, 

Europe,  America,  the  Orient, 

To  give  life  wings  as  Time's  last  great  event: 

The  final  glory  of  wings  to  the  soul  of  man 

In  an  order  of  life  human,  but  divine, 

Fashioned  in  carefulest  thought,  powerful  but  of  delicate 

design, 

As  the  wings  of  the  aeroplane  are. 
Where  spirit  of  man  is  used  to  the  full,  but  saved, 
As  the  petrol  demon,  in  this  dragon  of  war, 
Uses  and  saves  his  power. 

[86] 


WINGED  VICTORY 

Where  neither  thought,   truth,  love  nor  gifts,   nor  any 

flower 

Of  spirit  of  man,  so  mangled  or  enslaved 
In  the  eras  gone,  is  wasted  or  depraved. 

Man  shall  no  longer  crawl,  the  curse  is  raised 

With  winning  of  his  wings. 

Dust  he  no  more  shall  eat, 

Who  crawls  not,  but  from  feet 

Has  risen  to  wings! 

Man  shall  no  longer  python  be. 

These  wings  are  prophecies  of  a  world  made  free! 

Man  shall  no  longer  crawl,  the  curse  is  raised. 

He  has  soared  to  the  gate  of  heaven  and  gazed 

Into  the  meadows  of  infinity, 

Winged  and  with  lightning  shod, 

Beyond  the  old  day's  lowering  cloud  and  murk. 

The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God, 

Man  shows  His  handiwork! 


OH  YOU  SABBATARIANS! 

Oh  you  Sabbatarians,  methodists  and  puritans; 

You  bigots,  devotees  and  ranters; 

You  formalists,  pietists  and  fanatics, 

Teetotalers  and  hydropots, 

You  thin  ascetics,  androgynous  souls, 

Chaste  and   epicene  spirits, 

Eyes  blind  to  color,  ears  deaf  to  sound, 

Fingers  insensitive, 

Do  what  you  will, 

Make  what  laws  you  choose  — 

Yet  there  are  high  spaces  of  rapture 

Which  you  can  never  touch, 

They  are  beyond  you  and  hidden  from  you. 

We  leave  you  to  the  dull  assemblies, 

Charades,  cantatas  and  lectures; 

The  civic  meetings  where  you  lie  and  act 

And  work  up  business; 

The  teas  of  forced  conversation, 

And  receptions  of  how-de-dos, 

And  stereotyped  smiles; 

The  church  sociables; 

And  the  calls  your  young  men  of  clammy  hands 

And  fetid  breath 

Pay  to  anaemic  virgins  — 

[88] 


OH  YOU  SABBATARIANS! 

These  are  yours; 

Take  them  - 

But  I  tell  you 

In  places  you  know  not  of, 

We,  the  free  spirits,  the  livers, 

Guests  at  the  wedding  feast  of  life, 

Drinkers  of  the  wine  made  by  Jesus, 

Worshipers  of  fire  and  of  God, 

Who  made  the  grape, 

And  filled  the  veins  of  His  legitimate  children 

With  ethereal  flame  — 

We  the  lovers  of  life  in  unknown  places 

Shall  taste  of  ancient  wine, 

And  put  flowers  in  golden  vases, 

And  open  precious  books  of  song, 

And  look  upon  dreaming  Buddhas, 

And  marble  masks  of  genius. 

We  shall  hear  the  sound  of  stringed  instruments, 

Voicing  the  dreams  of  great  spirits. 

We  shall  know  the  rapture  of  kisses 

And  long  embraces, 

And  the  sting  of  folly. 

We  shall  entwine  our  arms  in  voluptuous  sleep, 

And  in  the  misery  of  your  denials 

And  your  cowardice  and  your  fears 

You  shall  not  even  dream  that  we  c\i>t. 

Unintelligible  weeds!     We,  the  blossoms  of  life's  garden, 
Flourish  on  the  hills  of  variable  winds  — 
We  perish,  but  you  never  live. 


PALLAS  ATHENE 

Athene!     Virgin!     Goddess!     Queen!    descend, 
Come  to  us  and  befriend. 
Set  up  your  shrine  among  us  and  defend 
Our  realm  against  corruptions  which  impend. 

***** 

Divinity  of  order  and  of  law, 

Most  powerful  and  wise, 

Our  land  reclaim. 

Patron  of  the  assemblies  of  the  free, 

Our  cities  shame! 

Dethrone  our  bastard  Demos,  partisans 

Of  Moody,  Campbell,  all  the  Wesleyans. 

Come  down  with  awe, 

Enceladus  and  Pallas  strike,  who  rise 

Against  your  father  and  his  hierarchy. 

Smite  the  giants  Superstition,  Force, 

Fanaticism,  Ignorance  and  Faith 

In  village  gods,  and  bury  them  beneath 

Volcanic  mountains.     Yoke  them  to  the  course 

And  labor  of  your  wisdom.     Fling  your  shield, 

Medusa  faced,  before  the  brows  of  clay, 

Who  rule  our  clattering  day; 

Flash  it  before  their  brows  and  make 

Stones  for  the  pavement  of  the  way 

[90] 


PALLAS  ATHENE 

Whereon   you   drive   your  chariot,   golden-wheeled. 

Descend,  O  Goddess,  for  the  memory's  sake 

And  for  the  hope's  sake  of  your  son, 

Franklin,  your  herald,  Washington, 

Who  dreamed  to  make  perpetual 

Our  Parthenon,  column,  court  and  hall. 

And  save  it  from  the  donjon,  minaret, 

The  cross,  the  spire,  the  vane,  the  parapet! 


We  have  no  god  but  Jesus, 

No  god  but  Billiken. 

Nature  and  Dionysius 

Come  back  again! 

Jehovah  is  an  alien  tyrant,  rules  us 

From  arid  Palestine, 

Who  mouths  a  heaven  that  fools  us, 

And  curses  the  olive  and  vine, 

And  the  smiles  of  the  lyric  nine. 

Gods  are  they,  hard  and  full  of  wrath 

Who  drive  us  on  the  unintelligible  path. 

Gods  are  they,  and  unreckoning  of  their  work 

Too  puerile  or  despotic,  or  with  feet 

That  drip  blood  on  a  mercy  seat. 

They  nerve  our  hands  with  hatred's  dirk, 

Or  weaken  us  with  poison  sweet. 

Drug  us  to  mumble  this  is  life,  who  feel 

In  our  delirium,  no  less,  that  life 

Is  an  ocean  that  breaks  the  grist  stones  and  the  wheel 

Set  up  to  feed  this  world  of  strife 


STARVED  ROCK 

By  Mary's  son,  Mary  the  wife 

Come  from  the  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Goddess,  and  give  us  wisdom,  vision,  rest. 
Reveal  a  Beauty  for  our  hearts  to  love. 
The  wooden  ark  of  Moses,  overlaid 
With  strips  of  gold, 
And  all  the  spurious  covenant  thereof 
By  which  our  life  is  obelised 
We  would  no  more  behold, 
Who  have  so  vainly  with  it  temporized. 
Fruitless  our  spirits  have  these  centuries  prayed 
Before  the  Janus  cross, 
The  oracle  that  speaks  in  riddles,  asks 
Penitence,   obedience,   tasks 
Which  nature  interdicts. 
We  are  the  body  on  the  crucifix, 
Not  Jesus ;  we,  the  race,  are  crucified, 
And  die  upon  the  cross, 
For  centuries  have  died. 
Come  and  restore  our  loss 
Of  truth,  the  eyes  of  spirits  undeceived, 
Courage  with  nature,  strike  the  opiate  joss 
To  ruin  with  your  sword, 
O  most  adored! 

Give  us  Reality,  O  lover  of  men, 
Republics,  cities,  lands. 
Uplift  our  eyes  to  Beauty,  once  perceived 
We  may  rebuild  the  Areopagus, 
With  wiser  eyes  and  hands. 
Bring  Thought,  the  Argus,  consciousness 
[92] 


PALLAS  ATHENE 

That  looks  before  and  after, 

And  grace  perpetual  of  Mnemosyne  — 

Remembering  we  shall  be  free! 

Save  us,  O  Goddess,  from  the  drifting  crowd, 

Wondering,  witless,  loud, 

The  lovers  of  the  minute  who  possess 

No  reverence  and  no  laughter! 

***** 

Goddess!  with  silver  helmet,  guardian 

You  may  be,  if  we  worship  at  your  shrine, 

Before  the  gates  of  Boston  and  New  York, 

Chicago,  San  Francisco,  through  the  span 

Of  continents  and  isles;  your  heart  incline 

Toward  our  turbulent  blood  from  many  climes, 

Worships  and  times. 

Lift  from  our  necks  the  brass  and  jeweled  torque 

Of  restless  zealots  and  of  idiot  mouths; 

The  locusts  swarm,  the  land  is  cursed  with  drouths, 

Bring  rain  and  dew, 

Plant  olive  trees, 

Set  on  our  hills  the  emblem  of  the  vine; 

Bring  to  our  hearts  the  lofty  purities 

Of  song  and  laughter,  wisdom,  and  renew 

Temples  of  beauty  and  academies! 

***** 

Set  up  your  golden  altar 

In  Parthenons  in  every  village  and  shire. 

The  crucifix  and  psalter, 

The  ikons  and  the  toys  of  vain  desire 

[93] 


STARVED  ROCK 

We  cast  into  the  fire. 

We  keep  the  lover  Jesus,  for  his  hope, 

His  humanism  and  his  flaming  zeal. 

He  will  approach  your  altar,  he  will  kneel 

At  last  before  you,  for  the  horoscope 

Of  life  misread  in  youth 

And  youthful  dreams  and  faith. 

Goddess!  our  globe  that  hungers  for  the  truth 

Between  the  roar  of  life,  silence  of  death 

Cannot  be  stayed  or  cowed.     But,  oh,  descend 

First  to  our  soil,  Atlantis,  and  befriend. 

Make  us  a  light  across  the  fathomless  sea 

Of  centuries  to  be, 

Even  as  Athens  is,  divinity ! 


[94] 


AT  SAGAMORE  HILL 

All  things  proceed  as  though  the  stage  were  set 

For  acts  arranged.     I  have  not  learned  the  part, 

The  day  enacts  itself.     I  take  the  tube, 

Find  daylight  at  Jamaica,  know  the  place 

Through  some  rehearsal,  all  the  country  know 

Which  glides  along  the  window,  is  not  seen 

For  definite  memory.     At  Oyster  Bay 

A  taxi  stands  in  readiness;  in  a  trice 

We  circle  strips  of  water,  slopes  of  hills, 

Climb  where  a  granite  wall  supports  a  hill, 

A  mass  of  blossoms,  ripening  berries,  too, 

And  enter  at  a  gate,  go  up  a  drive, 

Shadowed  by  larches,  cedars,  silver  willows. 

This  taxi  just  ahead  is  in  the  play, 

Is  here  in  life  as  I  had  seen  it  in 

The  crystal  of  prevision,   reaches  first 

The  porte  cochere.     This  moment  from  the  door 

Comes  Roosevelt,  and  greets  the  man  who  leaves 

The  taxi  just  ahead,  then  waits  for  me, 

Puts  a  strong  hand  that  softens  into  mine, 

And  says,  O,  this  is  bully! 

We  go  in. 

He  leaves  my  antecessor  in  a  room 
Somewhere  along  the  hall,  and  comes  to  me 

[95] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Who  wait  him  in  the  roomy  library. 
How  are  those  lovely  daughters  ?     Oh,  by  George ! 
I  thought  I  might  forget  their  names,  I  know  — 
It's  Madeline  and  Marcia.     Yes,  you  know 
Corinne  adores  the  picture  which  you  sent 
Of  Madeline  —  your  boy,  too?     In  the  war! 
That's  bully  —  tea  is  coming  —  we  must  talk, 
I  have  five  hundred  things  to  ask  you  —  set 
The  tea  things  on  this  table,  Anna  —  now, 
Do  you  take  sugar,  lemon?     O,  you  smoke! 
I'll  give  you  a  cigar. 


The  talk  begins. 

He's  dressed  in  canvas  khaki,  flannel  shirt, 
Laced  boots  for  farming,  chopping  trees,  perhaps; 
A  stocky  frame,  curtains  of  skin  on  cheeks 
Drained  slightly  of  their  fat ;  gash  in  the  neck 
Where  pus  was  emptied  lately ;  one  eye  dim, 
And  growing  dimmer;  almost  blind  in  that. 
And  when  he  walks  he  rolls  a  little  like 
A  man  whose  youth  is  fading,  like  a  cart 
That  rolls  when  springs  are  old.     He  is  a  moose, 
Scarred,  battered  from  the  hunters,  thickets,  stones; 
Some  finest  tips  of  antlers  broken  off, 
And  eyes  where  images  of  ancient  things 
Flit  back  and  forth  across  them,  keeping  still 
A  certain  slumberous  indifference 
Or  wisdom,  it  may  be. 

[96] 


AT  SAGAMORE  HILL 

But  then  the  talk! 

Bronze  dolphins  in  a  fountain  cannot  spout 
More  streams  at  once :     Of  course  the  war,  the  emperor, 
America  in  the  war,  his  sons  in  France, 
The  dangers,  separation,  let  them  go! 
The  fate  has  been  appointed  —  to  our  task, 
Live  full  our  lives  with  duty,  go  to  sleep! 
For  I  say,  he  exclaims,  the  man  who  fears 
To  die  should  not  be  born,  nor  left  to  live. 
It's  Celtic  poetry,  free  verse.     He  says: 
You  nobly  celebrate  in  your  Spoon  River 
The  pioneers,  the  soldiers  of  the  past, 
Why  do  you  flout  our  Philippine  adventure? 
No  difference,  Colonel,  in  the  stock,  the  difference 
Lies  in  the  causes.     Well,  another  stream: 
Mark  Hanna,  Quay  and  others,  what  I  hate, 
He  says  to  me,  is  the  Pharisee — I  can  stand 
All  other  men.     And  you  will  find  the  men 
So  much  maligned  had  gentle  qualities, 
And  noble  dreams.     Poor  Quay,  he  loved  the  Indians, 
Sent  for  me  when  he  lay  there  dying,  said, 
Look  after  such  a  tribe  when  I  am  dead. 
I  want  to  crawl  upon  a  sunny  rock 
And  die  there  like  a  wolf.     Did  he  say  that, 
Colonel,  to  you?     Yes!  and  you  know,  a  man 
Who  says  a  thing  like  that  has  in  his  soul 
An  orb  of  light  to  flash  that  meaning  forth 
Of  heroism,  nature. 

Time  goes  on, 
The  play  is  staged,  must  end ;  my  taxi  comes 

[97] 


STARVED  ROCK 

In  half  an  hour  or  so.     Before  it  comes, 
Let's  walk  about  the  farm  and  see  my  corn. 
A  fellow  on  the  porch  is  warming  heels 
As  we  go  by.     I'll  see  him  when  you  go, 
The  Colonel  says. 


The  rail  fence  by  the  corn 
Is  good  to  lean  on  as  we  stand  and  talk 
Of  farming,  cattle,  country  life.     We  turn, 
Sit  for  some  moments  in  a  garden  house 
On  which  a  rose  vine  clambers  all  in  bloom, 
And  from  this  hilly  place  look  at  the  strips 
Of  water  from  the  bay  a  mile  beyond, 
Below  some  several  terraces  of  hills 
Where  firs  and  pines  are  growing.     This  resembles 
A  scene  in  Milton  that  I've  read.     He  knows, 
Catches  the  reminiscence,  quotes  the  lines  —  and  then 
Something  of  country  silence,  look  of  grass 
Where  the  wind  stirs  it,  mystical  little  breaths 
Coming  between  the  roses;  something,  too, 
In  Vulcan's  figure;  he  is  Vulcan,  too, 
Deprived  his  shop,  great  bellows,  hammer,  anvil, 
Sitting  so  quietly  beside  me,  hands 
Spread  over  knees;  something  of  these  evokes 
A  pathos,  and  immediately  in  key 
With  all  of  this  he  says:     I  have  achieved 
By  labor,  concentration,  not  at  all 
By  gifts  or  genius,  being  commonplace 
In  all  my  faculties. 

[98] 


AT  SAGAMORE  HILL 

Not  all,  I  say. 

One  faculty  is  not,  your  over-mind, 
Eyed  front  and  back  to  see  all  faculties, 
Govern  and  watch  them.     If  we  let  you  state 
Your  case  against  you,  timid  born,  you  say, 
Becoming  brave,  asthmatic,  growing  strong: 
No  marksman,  yet  becoming  skilled  with  guns; 
No  gift  of  speech,  yet  winning  golden  speech; 
No  gift  of  writing,  writing  books,  no  less 
Of  our  America  to  thrill  and  live  — 
If,  as  I  say,  we  let  you  state  your  case 
Against  you  as  you  do,  there  yet  remains 
This  over-mind,  and  that  is  what  —  a  gift 
Of  genius  or  of  what  ?     By  George,  he  says, 
What  are  you,  a  theosophist?     I  don't  know. 
I  know  some  men  achieve  a  single  thing, 
Like  courage,  charity,  in  this  incarnation; 
You  have  achieved  some  twenty  things.     I  think 
That  this  is  going  some  for  a  man  whose  gifts 
Are  commonplace  and  nothing  else. 

We  rise 

And  saunter  toward  the  house  —  and  there's  the  man 
Still  warming  heels ;  my  taxi,  too,  has  come. 
We  are  to  meet  next  Wednesday  in  New  York 
And  finish  up  some  subjects  —  he  has  thoughts 
How  I  can  help  America,  if  I  drop 
This  line  or  that  a  little,  all  in  all. 

***** 

[99] 


STARVED  ROCK 

But  something  happens;  I  have  met  a  loss; 
Would  see  no  one,  and  write  him  I  am  off. 
And  on  that  Wednesday  flashes  from  the  war 
Say  Quentin  has  been  killed :  we  had  not  met 
If  I  had  stayed  to  meet  him. 

So,  good-by 

Upon  the  lawn  at  Sagamore  was  good-by, 
Master  of  Properties,  you  stage  the  scene 
And  let  us  speak  and  pass  into  the  wings! 
One  thing  was  fitting  —  dying  in  your  sleep  — 
A  touch  of  Nature,  Colonel,  you  who  loved 
And  were  beloved  of  Nature,  felt  her  hand 
Upon  your  brow  at  last  to  give  to  you 
A  bit  of  sleep,  and  after  sleep  perhaps 
Rest  and  rejuvenation;  you  will  wake 
To  newer  labors,  fresher  victories 
Over  those  faculties  not  disciplined 
As  you  desired  them  in  these  sixty  years. 


[100] 


TO  ROBERT  NICHOLS 

England  has  found  another  voice  in  you 

Of  beauty  and  of  truth, 
True  to  their  soul,  as  you  are  true  — 

Singer  and  soldier,  yet  a  youth. 

Out  of  the  trenches  and  the  rage  of  blood, 

The  hatred  and  the  lies 
You,  like  a  wounded  sky-lark,  in  a  flood 

Pour  forth  these  melodies, 

Of  a  spirit  which  has  suffered,  yet  has  soared 
Above  the  stench  of  hell  and  death's  defeats. 

I  look  at  you,  as  often  I  have  pored 
On  the  death  mask  of  Keats. 

Or  the  face  of  him  quickly  and  gladly  going 

The  waves  of  the  sea  under, 
To  the  land  of  man's  unknowing, 

Or  the  land  of  wonder. 

And  the  war  had  you !  what  can  it  give 

In  return  for  souls  like  yours 
Mangled  or  blotted  out  ?  —  who  shall  forgive 

The  war  while  time  endures? 

[101] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Back  of  the  shouting  mob,  the  brazen  bands, 

The  soldiers  marching  well, 
Gangrene  cries  out  and  Rupert  Brooke's  hands 

Clutch  in  a  hemorrhage  of  hell. 

Yet  you  found  God  through  this?  through  war, 
Through  love  found  vision,  perhaps  peace? 

Keep  them  in  your  breast  like  the  morning  star  — 
May  their  light  increase. 

Waves  on  the  sea's  breast  catch  the  light 

While  the  hollows  between 
Are  dark  —  you  are  a  wave  whose  height 

Is  smitten  by  the  Light  unseen, 

Urged  by  the  Sea's  power  to  the  glory 

Of  the  christening  sun. 
When  the  calm  comes  and  darkness,  transitory 

Be  your  doubt,  or  none. 

These  words  from  me  who  have  the  hard  way  traveled 

Of  pain  and  thought, 
In  a  weaving  never  wholly  unraveled, 

Or  wholly  wrought, 

For  your  spirit  and  your  songs,  gladness 

For  the  hope  of  you,  and  praise 
To  life,  who  gave  you  out  of  the  world's  madness 

In  these  our  days. 

[102] 


BONNYBELL:    THE  BUTTERFLY 

As  I  shall  die,  let  your  belief 

Find  in  these  words  too  poor  and  brief 

My  soul's  essential  self. 

My  grief 

Down  to  the  day  I  knew  you  locks 
Its  secret  word  in  paradox: 
I  who  loved  truth  could  not  be  true, 
Could  only  love  the  truth  and  glow 
With  words  of  truth  who  loved  it  so, 
Even  while   I   dishonored  you. 
I  who  loved  constancy  was  false, 
And   heeded    but    in   part   the  calls 
Of  loveliness  for  love  and  you. 
I   am  but  half  of  that  I  hoped, 
And   that   half   hardly  more  than   words 
I  cheered  my  soul  with  as  it  groped: 
As  from  their  bowers  of  rain  the  birds 
Sing  feebly,  pining  for  the  sun. 
As  I  am  all  of  this,  by  fate 
Lose  what  I  could  so  well  have  won, 
Life  leaves  me  half  articulate, 
My  failure,  nature  half -expressed, 
Or  wholly  hidden  in  my  breast. 
Yes,  dear,  the  secret  of  me  lies 
t«03] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Where  words  scarce  come  to  analyze. 
Yet  who  knows  why  he  is  this  or  that? 
What  moves,  defeats  him,  works  him  ill? 
What  blood  ancestral  of  the  bat 
Narrows  his  music  to  the  shrill 
Squeak  of  a  flitting  thing  that  hunts 
For  gnats,  which  never  singing,  fronts 
The  full  moon  flooding  down  the  vale, 
The  perfect  soul,   the  nightingale! 

You  have  wooed  music  all  your  life, 

And  I  have  sought  for  love.     I  think 

My  soul  was  marked,  dear,  by  a  wife 

Who  loved  a  man  immersed  in  drink, 

Who  crushed  her  love  which  would  not  die, 

If  this  be  true,  my  soul's  great  thirst 

Was  blended  with  a  fault  accursed. 

My  mother's  love  is  my  soul's  cry. 

My  father's  vileness,  lies  and  lusts, 

His  cruel  heart,  inconstancy 

That  kept  my  mother  with  the  crusts 

Of  life  to  gnaw,  are  in  my  blood. 

My   rainbow   wings   I   scarce   can  loose, 

Or  if  I  free  them,  there's  the  mud 

That  weighs  and  mars  their  use. 

You  have  wooed  music.     But  suppose 
The  hampered  hours  and  poverty 
Broke  down  your  spirit's  harmony, 
Then  if  you  found  you  could  achieve 


BONNYBELL:  THE  BUTTERFLY 

The  music  in  you,  if  you  could 

But  pick  a  pocket  or  deceive, 

Which  would  you  call  the  greater  good  — 

The  music  or  a  sin  withstood? 

Suppose  you  passed  a  window  where 

The  violin  of  your  despair 

Lay  ready  for  your  hands!     At  last 

You  stole  it  as  you  hurried  past, 

And  hid  it  underneath  your  rags 

Until  you  reached  your  attic  room, 

Then  tuned  the  strings  and  burned  the  tags. 

And  drew  the  bow  till  lyric  fire 

Should   all  your  thieving  thoughts  consume: 

In  such  case  what  is  your  desire  — 

The  music  or  the  violin? 

And  what  in  such  case  is  your  sin? 

And  if  they  caught  you  in  your  theft, 

Would  you,  just  to  be  honest,  dear, 

Forefront  your  thief-self  as  your  deft 

And  dominant  genius,  or  the  ear 

Which  tortured  you? 

Would  you  not  say, 
Music  intrigues  me  night  and  day? 
My  soul  is  the  musician's.     First 
In  my  soul's  love  is  music.     Would 
You  falsify  to  keep  your  good? 
Deny  your  theft,  or  put  the  worst 
Construction  on  your  soul,  obscure 
Thereby  your  soul's  investiture 

[105] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Of  music's  gift  and  music's  lure? 

If  you  were  flame  you  would  pretend 

What  you  would  fain  be  to  the  end, 

Keep  your  good  name  and  keep  as  well 

The  violin.     May  this  not  be 

In  some  realm  an  integrity? 

Now  for  myself,  dear,  though  I  lack 
The  gift  of  utterance  to  explain 
My  life's  pursuit  and  passion,  pain, 
Or  why  I  acted  thus,  concealed 
Thoughts  that  you  hold  were  best  revealed, 
Your  eyes  to  heal  themselves  must  track 
And  find  my  soul's  way  in  its  quest 
Followed  from  girlhood  without  rest. 
Music  is  not  its  hope,  but  love.  .  .  . 
And  I  saw  somehow  I  could  lift 
My  life  through  you,  and  rise  above 
What   I   had   been.     And  since  your  gift 
Of  love  saw  me  as  truthful,  true 
I  kept  that  best  side  to  your  view, 
And  hoped  to  be  what  you  desired 
If  I  but  struggled,  still  aspired. 
And  as  for  lapses,  even  while 
I  fooled  you  with  the  wanton's  smile, 
He  was  my  lover  till  you  came 
To  light  my  life  with  purer  flame. 
Was  it,  beloved,  so  great  a  sin? 
He  was  a  practice  violin. 
Oh,  how  I  knew  this  when  your  strings 
[106] 


BONNYBELL:  THE  BUTTERFLY 

Sang  to  me  afterward  when  I  slept 
Upon  your  breast  again.     I  wept, 
Do  you   remember?     I  was  grieving 
Neither  for  him,  nor  your  deceiving, 
Rather  (how  strange  is  life)   that  he 
Was  prelude  to  your  harmony; 
Rather  that  while  I  walked  with  him, 
With  you   I   found   the  cherubim, 
Left  my  old  self  at  last  with  wings, 
Saw  beauty  clear  where  it  was  dim 
Before  through   my  imaginings. 

Do  you  suppose  the  primrose  knows 
What  skill  adds  petals  to  its  crown? 
How  many  failures  laugh  and  frown 
Upon  the  hand  that  crosses,  sows? 
The  hand  is  ignorant  of  the  power 
Obedient   in   the   primrose   flower 
To  the  hand's  skill  that  toils  to  add 
New  petals  till  the  flower  be  clad 
In   fuller  glory.     What's  the  bond 
Between  us  two,  that  I  respond 
To  what  you  are  ?     Nor  do  you  know 
What  lies  within  me  fain  to  grow 
Under  your  hand. 

But  if  the  worm 
Should  call  itself  the  butterfly, 
Since  it  will  soon  become  one,  I 
Better  to  be  myself  affirm 

[107] 


STARVED  ROCK 

'That  I  am  Beauty,  Truth  —  for  you 
I  would  be  Beauty,  Truth,  imbue 
Your  life  with  love  and  loveliness. 
And  you  can  make  me  Beauty,  Truth, 
And  I  can  bring  you  soul  success 
If  you  but  train  my  flower  whose  youth 
Still  may  be  governed,  keep  erect 
My  hope  in  this  poor  earthen  sod. 
I  think  this  is  a  task  which  God 
Appoints  for  us.     We  may  neglect 
The  task  in  this  life,  but  to  find 
It  is  a  task  we  leave  behind, 
Only  to  meet  it,  till  we  see 
Our  fate  worked  out  in  lives  to  be. 

O,  from  my  lesser  self  to  spread 
My  golden  wings  above  your  head, 
Through  love  of  love  and  you  discard 
The  sting,  the  rings  of  green,  the  shard. 
Oh,  to  be  Psyche,  passion  tried 
Through  flesh,  desire,  purified! 
Love  is  my  lode-star,  music  yours  — 
Souls  must  go  where  the  lode-star  lures. 


[108] 


HYMN  TO  AGNI 

God  of  fire, 

God  of  the  flame  of  our  love, 

Beyond  whose  might  no  God  is, 

And  none  in  the  realm  of  birth, 

Agni!     Adored  one, 

May  we  never  suffer  in  thy  friendship! 

Thou,  who  art  re-born  each  day, 

And  whose  symbol  is  the  sacred  drill 

Wherewith  fire  is  made  for  the  temple, 

Morning  by  morning, 

Freshly  create  our  love  as  the  sun  awakes, 

Preserve  our  love,  O  Agni! 

The  crocuses,  the  dandelions, 
The  golden  forsythia 
Perished  in  May. 

But  roses  burn  on  the  altar  of  earth, 
Bridal  blossoms,  whitest  of  fire, 
Dance  in  the  winds  of  June. 
Agni,  remember  us, 
Remember  our  love! 

We  have  prayed  to  you,  powerful  one  — 
Thou  whose  name  is  first 

[109] 


STARVED  ROCK 

In  the  first  of  the  sacred  hymns; 

Thou  to  whom  sacrifices  pass 

To  the  Gods,  thou  messenger  of  the  Gods, 

Thou  who  art  born  a  little  lower  than  the  most 

high   Indra 

Hast  heard  our  prayer  — 
Hear  still  our  prayer: 
Abide  with  us,  O  Agni,  and  befriend; 
Make  our  hearts  as  temples, 
And  our  desire  as  the  drill, 
Wherewith  fire  is  created 
For  the  sacred  sacrifice  of  love, 
And  for  a  light  to  our  spirits  — 
Turn  not  away  from  our  prayers, 
O  Agni! 

Here  before  the  fire  of  the  Sun  of  June 

Kneeling 

Hand  in  hand, 

Our  eyes  closed  before  the  splendor  of  your  spirit 

Hear  our  prayer,  O  Agni: 

May  we  never  suffer  in  thy  friendship. 


[no] 


EPITAPH  FOR  US 

One  with  the  turf,  one  with  the  tree 
As  we  are  now,  you  soon  shall  be, 
As  you  are  now,  so  once  were  we. 

The  hundred  years  we  looked  upon 

Were  Goethe  and  Napoleon. 

Now  twice  a  hundred  years  are  gone, 

And  you  gaze  back  and  contemplate, 
Lloyd  George  and  Wilson,  William's  hate, 
And  Nicholas  of  the  bloody  fate; 

Us,  too,  who  won  the  German  war, 
Who  knew  less  what  the  strife  was  for 
Than  you,  now  that  the  conqueror 

Lies  with  the  conquered.     You  will  say: 
"  Here  sleep  the  brave,  the  grave,  the  gay, 
The  wise,  the  blind,  who  lost  the  way." 

But  for  us  English,  for  us  French, 

Americans  who  held  the  trench, 

You  will  not  grieve,  though  the  rains  drench 


STARVED  ROCK 

The  hills  and  valleys,  being  these. 
Who  pities  stocks,  or  pities  trees? 
Or  stones,  or  meadows,  rivers,  seas? 

We  are  with  nature,  we  have  grown 
At  one  with  water,  earth,  and  stone  — 
Man  only  is  separate  and  alone, 

Earth  sundered,  left  to  dream  and  feel 
Illusion  still  in  pain  made  real, 
The  hope  a  mist,  but  fire  the  wheel. 

Rut  what  was  love,  and  what  was  lust, 
Memory,  passion,  pain  or  trust, 
Returned  to  clay  and  blown  in  dust, 

Is  nature  without  memory  — 
Yet  as  you  are,  so  once  were  we, 
As  we  are  now,  you  soon  shall  be, 

Blind  fellows  of  the  indifferent  stars 
Healed  of  your  bruises,  of  your  scars 
In  love  and  living,  in  the  wars. 

Come  to  us  where  the  secret  lies 
Under  the  riddle  of  the  skies, 
Surrender  fingers,  speech,  and  eyes. 

Sink  into  nature  and  become 

The  mystery  that  strikes  you  dumb, 

Be  clay  and  end  your  martyrdom. 

[112] 


EPITAPH  FOR  US 

Rise  up  as  thought,  the  secret  know. 
As  passionless  as  stars  bestow 
Your  glances  on  the  world  below, 

As  a  man  looks  at  hand  or  knee. 

What  is  the  turf  of  you,  what  the  tree? 

Earth  is  a  phantom  —  let  it  be. 


BOTTICELLI  TO  SIMONETTA 

I  would  give  you  all  my  heart,  and  I  have  given 

All  my  heart  to  you  to  have  and  keep 
With  your  heart,  where  my  heart  has  found  its  heaven 

In  a  light  immortal,  and  a  peace  like  sleep. 
Here  is  my  heart,  for  you  to  have  and  treasure, 

Your  woman's  heart  will  treasure  it, 
For  a  love  that  only  love  may  find  a  measure, 

And  only  love  like  yours  can  measure  it. 

In  absence  and  in  separation  praying 

Before  your  love,  my  heart  receive, 
My  heart  which  kneels  to  you,  so  gently  laying 

Hands  of  deep  prayer,  too  reverent  to  grieve 
For  lives  divided,  yet  compassionate, 

As  my  poor  heart  is  pitiful  for  yours. 
These  hearts  of  ours,  that  know  so  deep  a  fate, 

Even  as  a  heart  that  silently  endures, 
Lie  on  an  altar  of  consuming  fire, 

Our  hearts  together,  taking  life  thereof. 
Ashes  must  come  of  two  hearts  which  aspire 

To  God,  who  has  given  love. 


[114] 


FLOWER  IN  THE  GARDEN 

Flower  in  the  garden, 

Wholly  itself  and  free, 

Yearning  and  joyous, 

Breathing  its  charm 

To  the  passer-by 

On  the  sighing  air  — 

Beloved  flower! 

Flower  desired  for  something  beyond 

Itself  as  a  flower; 

Giving  the  promise  of  ecstasy 

Beyond  its  own  being, 

Its  place  in  the  garden  — 

A  shadowed  flame 

Of  an  absolute! 

Flower  that  I  have  taken 
From  its  place  in  the  garden 
To  realize  the  ultimate  Beauty; 
Flower  in  the  vase  at  my  side, 
Breathing  a  sweeter  life 
Into  the  air  I  breathe, 
A  spirit  that  makes  me  faint, 
Sorrowful  with  a  strange  languor. 
Flower  no  less  beautiful, 
But  revealing  an  essence 

[us] 


STARVED  ROCK 

That  changes  my  flower. 
O,  my  flower  that  is  with  me  but  lost, 
Lost  in  the  disclosure  of  other  hues, 
Other  scents! 

Flower  of  passion,  flower  of  love, 
Flower  that  I  have  won  and  lost, 
Mystical  flower! 


[116] 


INEXORABLE  DEITIES 

Deities ! 

Inexorable  revealers, 

Give  me  strength  to  endure 

The  gifts  of  the  Muses, 

Daughters  of  Memory. 

When  the  sky  is  blue  as  Minerva's  eyes 

Let  me  stand  unshaken; 

When  the  sea  sings  to  the  rising  sun 

Let  me  be  unafraid; 

When  the  meadow  lark  falls  like  a  meteor 

Through  the  light  of  afternoon, 

An  unloosened  fountain  of  rapture, 

Keep  my  heart  from  spilling 

Its  vital  power; 

When  at  the  dawn 

The  dim  souls  of  crocuses  hear  the  calls 

Of  waking  birds, 

Give  me  to  live  but  master  the  loveliness. 

Keep  my  eyes  unharmed  from  splendors 

Unveiled  by  you, 

And  my  ears  at  peace 

Filled  no  less  with  the  music 

Of  Passion  and  Pain,  growth  and  change. 


STARVED  ROCK 

But  O  ye  sacred  and  terrible  powers, 
Reckless  of  my  mortality, 
Strengthen  me  to  behold  a  face, 
To  know  the  spirit  of  a  beloved  one 
Yet  to  endure,  yet  to  dare! 


[118] 


ARIELLE 

Arielle!     Arielle! 

Gracious  and  fanciful, 

Laughing  and  joyous! 

Arielle  girlish,  queenly,  majestical; 

Deep  eyed  for  memory, 

Pensive  for  dreams. 

Arielle  crowned  with  the  light  of  thought, 

Mystical,  reverent, 

Musing  on  the  splendor  of  life, 

And  the  blossom  of  love 

Pressed  into  her  hands  — 

Arielle! 

Music  awakes  in  the  hall! 

Shadowy  pools  and  glistening  willows, 

And  elfin  shapes  amid  silver  shadows 

Are  made  into  sound! 

Arielle  listens  with  hidden  eyes, 

Sitting  amid  her  treasures, 

A  presence  like  a  lamp  of  alabaster, 

A  yearning  gardenia 

That  broods  in  a  shaft  of  light  .  .  . 

AriVlle  clapping  hands  and  running 

About  her  rooms, 

Arranging  cloths  of  gold  and  jars  of  crystal, 

[119] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  vases  of  ruby  cloisonne. 
Arielle  matching  blues  and  reds: 
Pomegranates,  apples  in  bowls  of  jade. 
Arielle  reposing,  lost  in  Plato, 
In  the  contemplation  of  Agni. 
Arielle,  the  cup  to  her  lips, 
A  laughing  Thalia! 
Arielle! 

The  breath   of   morning  moves   through   the   casement 

window  — 

Arielle  taking  the  cool  of  it  on  her  brow, 
And  the  ecstasy  of  the  robin's  song  into  her  heart. 
Arielle  in  prayer  at  dawn 
Laying  hands  upon  secret  powers : 
Lead  me  in  the  path  of  love  to  my  love. 
Arielle  merging  the  past  and  the  present, 
As  light  increases  light  — 
Arielle  adored  — 
Arielle! 


[120] 


SOUNDS  OUT  OF  SORROW 

Of  all  sounds  out  of  the  soul  of  sorrow 
These  I  would  hear  no  more: 
The  cry  of  a  new-born  child  at  midnight; 
The  sound  of  a  closing  door, 

That  hushes  the  echo  of  departing  feet 
When  the  loneliness  of  the  room 
Is  haunted  with  the  silence 
Of  a  dead  god's  tomb; 

The  songs  of   robins  at  the  white  dawn, 
Since  I  may  never  see 
The  eyes  they  waked  in  the  April 
Now  gone  from  me; 

Music  into  whose  essence  entered 
The  soul  of  an  hour:  — 
A  face,  a  voice,  the  touch  of  a  hand, 
The  scent  of  a  flower. 


[121] 


MOURNIN'  FOR  RELIGION 

Brothers  and  sisters,  I'm  mournin'  for  religion, 

But  I  can't  get  religion,  it's  my  woman  interferin'. 

I  sing  and  I  pray,  and  I'm  real  perseverin,' 

But  I  can't  get  religion, 

That's  all  I  have  to  say. 

I   know  there  is  a  fountain,  a  Jesus,  a  comforter, 

A  heaven,  a  Jerusalem,  a  day  of  Pentecost, 

Salvation    for    the    wishin',    blood    for    sin's    remission, 

A  covenant,  a  promise  for  souls  that  are  lost. 

But  I  can't  get  religion,  the  salvation  feelin', 

The  vision  of  the  Lamb,  forgiveness  and  healin'. 

I  have  a  sort  of  numbness 

When  I  see  the  mourners  kneelin'. 

I  have  a  kind  of  dumbness 

When  the  preacher  is  appealin'. 

I  have  a  kind  of  wariness,  even  contrariness, 

Even  while  I'm  fearin' 

The  bottomless  pit  and  the  shut  gates  of  heaven. 

It's  my  woman  interferin' — 

For  you  see  when  they  say : 

Come  to  the  mercy  seat,  come,  come, 

The  spirit  and  the  bride 

Say  come,  come, 

[122] 


MOURNIN'  FOR  RELIGION 

I  think  of  my  woman  who  bore  so  many  children; 

I  think  of  her  a  cookin'  for  harvesters  in  summer; 

1  think  of  her  a  lyin'  there,  a  dyin'  there,  the  neighbors 

Who  came  in  to  fan  her  and  how  she  never  murmured; 

And  then  I  seem  to  grow  number  and  number, 

And  something  in  me  says: 

Why  didn't  Jesus  help  her  for  to  die, 

Why  did  Jesus  always  pass  her  by, 

Let  her  break  her  health  down  as  I  was  growing  poorer, 

Let  her  lie  and  suffer  with  no  medicine  to  cure  her, 

I  wouldn't  treat  a  stray  dog  as  Jesus  acted  to  her. 

If  these  are  devil  words,  I'm  a  child  of  the  devil. 

And  this  is  why  I'm  dumb 

As  the  spirit  and  the  bride  say  come! 


I  am  old  and  crippled  —  sixty  in  December. 

And  I  wonder  if  it's  God  that  stretches  out  and  hands  us 

Troubles  we  remember? 

I'm  alone  besides,   I   need  the  Comforter, 

All  the  children's  grown  up,  livin*  out  in  Kansas. 

My  old  friend  Billy  died  of  lung  fever.  .  .  . 

But  the  worst  of  it  is  I'm  really  a  believer. 

Expect  to  go  to  hell  if  I  don't  get  religion. 

And  I  need  this  religion  to  stop  this  awful  grievin* 

About  my  woman  lyin'  there  in  the  cemetery, 

And  you  can't  stop  that  grievin'  simply  by  believin'. 

So  I  mourn  for  religion, 

I   mourn  for  religion, 

My  old  heart  breaks  for  religion! 


THYAMIS 

Thyamis,  a  gallant  of  Memphis, 

Where  melons  were  served 

Iced  with  snow  from  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon; 

Thyamis,  a  philanderer  in  Alexandris 

Rich  in  parchments  and  terebinth, 

Lies  here  in  the  museum. 

His  lips  are  brown  as  peach  leather, 

Through  which  his  teeth  are  sticking, 

White  as  squash  seeds. 

***** 
Knowing  that  he  must  die  and  leave  her 
He  slew  the  lovely  Chariclea 
Who  sailed  with  him  on  the  Nile 
Under  the  moon  of  Egypt. 
This  is  the  body  of  Chariclea 
Undesiring  the  arms  of  Thyamis. 
This  is  the  remnant  of  Chariclea, 
Wrapped  in  a  gunny  sack, 
Rotted  with  gums  and  balsams. 

***** 
As  the  sands  of  the  desert  are  stirred 
By  the  wind  when  the  sun  sets, 
The  open  door  of  the  museum 
Lets  in  the  wind  to  shake 


THYAMIS 

The  cerements  of  Chariclea, 

And  the  stray  hairs  on  the  forsaken  head 

Of  Thyamis. 

***** 

Of  desire  long  dead; 

Of  a  murder  done  in  the  days  of  Pharaoh; 

Of  Thyamis  dying  who  took  to  death 

The  lovely  Chariclea; 

Of  Chariclea  who  shrank 

From  the  love  death  of  Thyamis 

The  multitude  passes,  unknowing. 

*  *  *  *  * 


I  SHALL  GO  DOWN  INTO  THIS  LAND 

I  shall  go  down  into  this  land 
Of  the  great  Northwest: 
This  land  of  the  free  ordinance, 
This  land  made  free  for  the  free 
By  the  patriarchs. 


Shall  it  be  Michigan, 

Or  Illinois, 

Or  Indiana? 

These  are  my  people, 

These  are  my  lovers,  my  friends  — 

Mingle  my  dust  with  theirs, 

Ye  sacred  powers! 

***** 

Clouds,   like  convoys  on  infinite  missions, 

Bound  for  infinite  harbors 

Float  over  the  length  of  this  land. 

And  in  the  centuries  to  come 

The  rocks  and  trees  of  this  land  will  turn, 

These  fields  and  hills  will  turn 

Under  unending  convoys  of  clouds  — 

O  ye  clouds! 

Drench  my  dust  and  mingle  it 

With  the  dust  of  the  pioneers; 

[126] 


I  SHALL  GO  DOWN  INTO  THIS  LAND 

My  mates,  my  friends, 
Toilers  and  sufferers, 
Builders  and  dreamers, 
Lovers  of  freedom. 


0  Earth  that  looks  into  space, 
As  a  man  in  sleep  looks  up, 
And  is  voiceless,  at  peace, 
Divining  the  secret  — 

1  shall  know  the  secret 

When  I  go  down  into  this  land 
Of  the  great  Northwest! 

**** 

Draw  my  dust 

With  the  dust  of  my  beloved 

Into  the  substance  of  a  great  rock, 

Upon  whose  point  a  planet  flames, 

Nightly,  in  a  thrilling  moment 

Of  divine   revelation 

Through  endless  time! 


SPRING  LAKE 

?7  Sc*  Kar*  OvAv/XTrio  Kapyvwv 


—  Iliad. 


Some  thought  a  bomb  hit 

Trotter's  garage. 

Some  thought  a  comet 

Blew  up  the  Lodge. 

Milem  Alkire  was  riding  in  a  Dodge, 
Saw  the  water  splashing,  and  a  great  light  flashing, 
And  a  thousand  arrows  flying  from  the  heaven's  glow; 
And  heard  a  great  banging  and  a  howling  clanging 
Of  a  bull-hide's  string  to  a  monstrous  bow. 


Milem  Alkire  became  a  changed  man, 

So  the  thing  began,  guess  it  if  you  can. 

He  turned  in  an  hour  from  a  man  who  was  sour 

To  a  singing,  dancing  satyr  like  Pan. 

He  hobbled  and  clattered  as  if  nothing  mattered 

Down  in  his  cellar  for  any  strange  fellow, 

Bringing  up  the  bottles,  clinking,  winking, 

For  the  crowd  that  was  drinking. 

All  against  the  statutes  in  such  case  provided. 


SPRING  LAKE 

Drew  well  water  to  cool  the  wine  off, 
Polished  up  the  glasses  with  a  humorous  cough. 
Milem  Alkire  for  years  had  resided 
A  quiet,  pious,  law  abiding  citizen 
Turned  in  an  hour  to  a  wag  who  derided 
The  feelings  of  the  people,  the  village  steeple, 
And  the  ways  that  befit  a  man  — 
This  Spring  Lake  citizen. 


Ill 

And  about  the  time 

That  Milem  Alkire 

Became  a  wine  seller, 

And  begetter  of  crime, 

With  parties  on  his  lawn 

From  mid-night  to  dawn, 

Making  the  wine  free 

Under  the  pine  tree, 

Starling  Turner's  wife  ran  away, 

A  woman  who  before  was  anything  but  gay. 

Never  had  a  lover  in  her  life,  so  they  say, 

But  like  other  clay,  had  the  longing  to  stray. 

She  saw  a  cornet  player, 

An  idler,  a  strayer, 

And   left   her  husband   furious  threatening  to  slay   her, 

And  cursing  musicians  who  have  no  honest  missions. 

So  Starling  Turner,  a  belated  learner 

Of  life  as  music,  laughter,  folly, 

Grew  suddenly  jolly,  forgot  his  melancholy, 

[109] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Became  a  dancer  and  rounded  up  the  fiddlers, 

Got  up  a  contest  of  fifty  old  fiddlers, 

With  prizes  for  fiddling  from  best  to  middling: 

A  set  of  fine  harness  for  the  best  piece  of  fiddling. 

Work  stopped,  business  stopped,  all  went  mad, 

Mad  about  music,  the  preachers  looked  sad 

For  music,  the  like  of  which  the  village  never  had.  .  .  . 

The  children  in  the  street  were  shockingly  bad, 

And  danced  like  pixies  scantily  clad ; 

Knocked  away  the  crutches  from  venerable  hobblers, 

Threw  pebbles  at  the  windows  of  grocers  and  cobblers, 

Made  fun  of  the  preachers,  the  grammar  school  teachers, 

Stole  spring  chickens  and  turkey  gobblers, 

Roasted  hooked  geese  in  front  of  the  police. 

Till  the  quidnuncs  decided  it  wasn't  any  use, 

The  devil  had  let  a  thousand  devils  loose. 


IV 

Then  folks  began  to  read  old  books  forbidden. 
Carpenters  orated  and  expatiated 
On  Orphic  doctrines  and  wisdoms  long  hidden, 
A  Swede  who  couldn't  speak  began  to  talk  Greek. 
There  were  meetings  in  the  park  from  dawn  to  dark. 
And  wild  talk  of  razing  the  village,  effacing 
The  plain  little  houses  and  the  town  replacing 
With  carved  stone,  columns  and  temples  gracing 
Gardens  and  vistas  the  water  front  embracing. 
And  others  would  create  a  brand  new  state. 
So  fire  broke  out  in  the  strangest  places. 


SPRING  LAKE 

The  belated  traveler  beheld  elfin  faces 

Springing  from  nothing,  to  vanish  in  a  second. 

Potatoes  unthrown  went  whizzing  round  corners. 

Voices  were  heard  and  white  fingers  beckoned, 

Till  all  the  wise  ones,  doubters  and  scorners 

Although  they  winced,  in  some  way  evinced 

That  their  minds  were  convinced. 

Something  was  wrong, 

The  evidence  was  strong, 

The  air  was  full  of  song: 

You  woke  out  of  sleep  and  heard  a  violin, 

A  harp  or  a  horn; 

And   rose  up  and   followed  the  sound  growing  thin 

At  the  break  of  morn. 


Music,  music,  music  was  blown 
Over  the  waters,  out  of  the  woodlands, 
Grassy  valleys  and  sunny  meadow  lands 
In  the  mid  spaces,  tone  on  tone. 
The  pasturing  flocks  were  sleeker  grown 
And  multiplied  in  a  way  unknown.  .  .  . 
And  little  Alice  bright  of  eye 
Dreamed  and  began  to  prophesy: 
And  said  the  strayer,  the  cornet  player, 
Who  took  Starling  Turner's  wife  away, 
Is  coming  back  at  an  eurl\   day: 
Look  out,  said  Alice,  to  Imogene, 
Red-lipped,  bright-eyed,  turned  eighteen, 


STARVED  ROCK 

You  have  danced  too  much  on  the  village  green. 

Look  out  for  the  cornet  player,  I  mean. 

I  know  who  he  is  for  my  eyes  are  keen. 

Your  blood  is  desiring,  but  yet  serene. 

I  know  his  face  and  his  bright  desire, 

Laurel  leaves  are  around  his  brow; 

He  carries  a  horn,  but  sometimes  a  lyre. 

His  eyes  are  blue  and  his  face  is  fire. 

Look  out,  said  Alice,  his  touch  is  dire, 

Keep  to  the  house,  or  the  church's  spire. 


VI 

And  what  was  next?     The  girl  disappeared. 

As  Alice  feared,  no  fate  interfered. 

A  posse  collected,  hunted  and  peered, 

Raced   through   the  night  till  their  eyes  were  bleared, 

And  looked  for  Imogene,  cried  and  cheered 

When  a  clew  was  found,  or  a  doubt  was  cleared. 

A  posse  with  pitch-forks,  scythes  and  axes, 

Shot-guns,  pistols,  knives  and  rifles, 

Hunts  for  Imogene,  never  relaxes, 

Runs  over  meadows  for  luring  trifles: 

The  wave  of  grain  or  a  weed  that  tosses; 

And  curse  and  say  what  a  terrible  loss  is 

Come  to  Spring  Lake:  a  wife's  enticed, 

And  then  this  fairest  maid  is  abducted. 

Why  are  the  innocent  sacrificed? 

We  are  a  people  well  conducted. 

What  is  the  curse,  or  is  it  the  war? 

[132] 


SPRING  LAKE 

Why  is  it  every  one  here  is  housing 

Fiddlers,  idlers,  fancy  dancers. 

At  Milem  Alkire's  why  carousing; 

Everything  that  the  good  abhor 

In  lovers  and  romancers? 

The  world  is  mad,  the  village  is  mad, 

Even  the  cattle  bellow  and  run. 

Old  maid,  young  maid,  man  and  lad 

Have  eaten  of  something  half  insane; 

Such  antics  never  before  were  done 

And  never  it  seems  may  be  again 

Under  the  shining  sun. 

And  now  comes  villainy  out  of  the  fun. 

Come  with  the  torch,  come  with  the  halter, 

Gather  the  posse,  stay  nor  falter, 

Catch  the  scoundrel  who  spoiled  our  peace 

And  hang  him  up  in  the  maple  tree's 

Highest  branch.     For  what  is  the  law 

If  it  can't  slip  the  noose  and  draw 

This  minstrel  man  to  a  thing  of  awe? 


VII 

Then  the  pastor  said :     Talk  of  the  gallows 

Is  just  the  thing  for  it's  righteous  malice; 

And  we  need  hearts  with  piety  callous 

For  work  like  this,  I  might  say  salus 

Populi,  but  bright-eyed  Alice 

Can  help  us  in  this  matter  kinetic 

Who  has  grown  psychic  and  grown  prophetic, 

[133] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Sees  round  corners,  and  looks  through  doors 
And  spies  old  treasure  under  the  floors. 
And  I  have  heard  that  Alice  averred, 
The  cornet  player's  the  self-same  bird 
Who  enticed  the  wife  of  Starling  Turner 
And  kidnapped  Imogene;  he  will  spurn  her 
Later  for  some  one  else,  unless  we 
Capture  and  hang  the  vile  sojourner; 
So  now  for  Alice,  he  said,  and  bless  me ! 


VIII 

Alice  came  out  to  lead  the  mob 

Catch  the  scoundrel  and  finish  the  job. 

Down  to  Fruitport  before  it  is  dark 

Come,  said  Alice,  Joan  of  Arc. 

Farmers,  butchers,  cobblers,  dentists, 

Lawyers,  doctors,  preachers,  druggists 

Hustled  and  ran  in  the  afternoon, 

Following  Alice  who  led  the  way 

Chanting  an  ancient  roundelay, 

A  wild  and  haunting  tune. 

Her  hair  streamed  over  her  little  shoulders 

Back  in  the  wrind  for  all  beholders. 

And  her  little  feet  were  as  swift  and  white 

As  waves  that  dance  in  the  noonday  light. 

Youths  were  panting,  middle  aged  men 

Had  to  rest  and  resume  again. 

She  ran  the  posse  almost  to  death, 

All  were  gasping  and  out  of  breath. 

[•34] 


SPRING  LAKE 

At  last  they  halted  upon  the  ridge. 
There!  said  Alice,  beside  the  bridge 
Under  its  shadow.     Look,  he's  there 
Weaving  lilies  in   Imogene's  hair; 
His  musical  instrument  laid  aside 
Now  he  has  charmed  the  maiden  pride 
Of  Imogene  who  is  not  his  bride, 
Come,  said  Alice,  before  they  hide. 


IX 

They  ran  from  the  ridge, 

Looked  under  the  bridge. 

There!  he  escapes,  said  Alice,  the  fay. 

Where?     Howled  the  mob!  which  is  the  way? 

There's  Imogene  wrapped  as  if  in  a  trance, 

Said  the  preacher,  there  where  the  waters  dance. 

I  saw  as  it  were  a  shaft  of  light 

Steal  from  her  side,  vanish  from  sight. 

The  cobbler  said :  it  was  like  a  comet; 

The  druggist,  water  by  a  bomb  hit. 

Yes,  said  the  lawyer,  I  heard  a  splashing 

And  saw  a  light  as  of  waters  flashing 

Or  a  thousand  arrows  of  splendor  flying 

I  heard  a  booming,  banging,  clanging 

Of  a  bull's  hide  string,  it  was  terrifying. 

No,  said  Alice,  this  form  of  light, 

That  stole  away  and  vanished  from  sight, 

That  was  the  fellow,  said  Alice,  the  sprite. 

[135] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Go  after  him,  follow  through  meadow  and  hollow 
The  God  Apollo,  the  great  Apollo ! 


They  went  to  Imogene  then  and  took  her, 

Spoke  to  her,  slapped  her  hands  and  shook  her, 

Asked  her  who  it  was  that  forsook  her, 

Why  she  had  left  her  home  and  wandered, 

What  was  the  dream  she  sat  and  pondered, 

And  Imogene  said,  it's  a  dream  of  dread, 

Now  that  the  glory  of  it  is  fled. 

Where  am  I  now,  where  is  my  lover? 

God  of  my  dreams,  singer  and  rover. 

I  danced  with  the  muses  in  flowering  meadows; 

We  lay  on  lawns  of  whispering  shadows; 

We  walked  by  moonlight  where  pine  trees  stood 

Feathery  clear  in  the  crystal  flood; 

He  gave  me  honey  and  grapes  for  food. 

We  rode  on  the  clouds  and  counted  the  stars. 

He  sang  me  songs  of  the  ancient  wars. 

He  told  me  of  cities  and  temples  builded 

Under  his  hand,  we  waded  rivers 

By  star-light  and  by  sun-light  gilded; 

By  shades  where  the  green  of  the  laurel  shivers. 

But  it  came  to  this,  and  this  I  see: 

Life  is  beautiful  if  you  are  free, 

If  you  live  yourself  like  the  laurel  tree. 


[136] 


SPRING  LAKE 


XI 

Then  some  of  them  teased  her,  the  posse  seized  her, 

They  tore  the  lilies  out  of  her  hair. 

Back  to  the  village,  exclaimed  the  preacher, 

Back  to  your  home,  exclaimed  the  teacher. 

You've  been  befooled,  said  Alice,  the  fay, 

And  back  went  Imogene  in  despair, 

Weeping  all  the  way! 


[137] 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEPO 

Trimmed  but  not  cut  too  short ;  the  temples  shaved, 
Neck  clipped  around,  not  shaved,  an  oil  shampoo, 
You  have  a  world  of  time  before  the  train 
And  when  it  comes  it  stops  ten  minutes  —  then 
The  depot's  just  a  block  away. 

Oh  yes, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  town.     But  when 
I  earn  the  money  to  get  out,  I  go. 
I've  had  my  share  of  bad  luck  —  seems  to  me 
Without  my  fault,  as  least  life's  actinism 
Makes  what  we  call  our  luck  or  lack  of  luck.  .  .  . 

Go  down  this  street  a  block,  find  Burney  Cole 

And  ask  him  why  I  was  not  graduated 

From  Sepo's  High  School  at  the  time  he  was. 

It  was  this  way:     I  fell  in  love  that  spring 

With  Lillie  Balzer,  and  it  ended  us, 

Lillie  and  me,  for  finishing  that  year. 

I  thought  of  Lillie  morning,  noon  and  night 

And  Lillie  thought  of  me,  and  so  we  flunked. 

That  thinned  the  class  to  Burney  Cole,  and  he 

Stood  up  and  spoke  twelve  minutes  scared  to  death. 

Progress  of  Science  was  his  theme,  committed 

[138] 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEPO 

To  memor>r,  the  gestures  timed,  they  trained  him 
Out  in  the  woods  near  Big  Creek. 

Lil  and  I 

Sat  there  and  laughed  —  the  town  was  in  the  hall, 
Applause  terrific,  bouquets  thick  as  hops. 
And  when  they  handed  Burney  his  diploma 
The  crowd  went  wild. 

How  does  this  razor  work? 

Not  shaving  you  too  close?     I  try  to  please  .  .  . 
Burney  was  famous  for  a  night,  you  see. 
They  thought  his  piece  was  wonderful,  such  command 
Of  language,  depth  of  thought  beyond  his  years. 
Next  morning  with  his  ears  and  cheeks  still  burning, 
Flushed  like  a  god,  as  Keats  says,  Burney  stood 
Behind  the  counter  in  the  grocery  store 
Beginning  then  to  earn  the  means  to  take 
A  course  in  Science  —  when  a  customer 
Came  in  and  said:  a  piece  of  star  tobacco, 
Young  fellow,  hurry!     Such  is  fame  —  one  night 
You're  on  a  platform  gathering  in  bouquets, 
Next  morning  without  honor  and  forgotten, 
Commanded  like  a  boot-black. 

Five  years  now 

Burney  has  clerked,  some  say  has  given  up 
The  course  in  science,  and   I   hate  to  ask  him  .  .  . 
But  as  for  me,  there  was  a  lot  of  talk, 
And  Lillie  went  away,  began  to  sport. 
She's  been  around  the  world,  is  living  now 


STARVED  ROCK 

In  Buenos  Ayres.     Love's  a  funny  thing: 
It  levels  ranks,  puts  monarch  or  savant 
Beside  the  chorus  girl  and  in  her  hands. 
I  stayed  here,  did  not  have  to  leave  for  shame, 
But  Lillie  changed  my  life. 

When  she  was  gone 

My  conscience  hurt  me,  and  that  very  fall 
When  I  was  most  susceptible,  responsive, 
And  penitent,  we  had  a  great  revival. 
And  just  to  use  the  lingo:  after  much 
Wrestling  at  the  Seat  of  Mercy,  prayers 
And  ministrations  then  I  saw  the  light, 
Became  converted,  got  the  ecstasy. 
I  wrote  to  Lillie  who  was  in  Chicago 
To  seek  salvation,  told  her  of  myself. 
She  wrote  back,  you  are  cracked  —  go  take  a  pill.  .  .  . 
I  know  you've  come  to  get  your  hair  trimmed,  shaved, 
Also  to  bear  my  story  —  you  shall  hear. 
The  elders  saw  in  me  a  likely  man 
And  said  there  is  a  preacher.     First  I  knew 
They  had  a  purse  made  up  to  send  me  off 
To  learn  theology,  and  so  I  went. 

I  plunged  into  the  stuff  that  preachers  learn: 
The  Hebrew  language,  Aramaic  and  Syriac; 
The  Hebrew  ideas  —  rapid  survey  —  oh,  yes, 
Rapid  survey,  that  was  the  usual  thing. 
Histories  of  Syria  and  Palestine; 
Theology  of  the  Synoptics,  eschatology. 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEPO 

Doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  Docetism, 

And  Christian  writings  to  Eusebius. 

Well,  in  the  midst  of  all  of  this  what  happens? 

A  fellow  shows  me  Draper  and  this  stuff 

Went  up  like  shale  and  soft  rock  in  a  blast. 

My  room  mate  was  John  Smith,  he  handed  me 

This  book  of  Draper's.     What  do  you  suppose? 

This  scamp  was  there  to  get  at  secret  things, 

Was  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  had  no  belief. 

He  used  to  say:     "  They'd  never  know  me  now." 

By  which  he  meant  he  was  a  different  person 

In  some  round  dozen  places,  and  each  place 

Was  different  from  the  others,  he  was  native 

To  each  place,  played  his  part  there,  was  unknown 

As  fitted  to  another,  hence  his  words 

"  They'd  never  know  me  now." 

And  so  it  was 

This  John  Smith  acted  through  the  course,  came  through 
A  finished  preacher.     But  they  found  me  out 
As  soon  as  Draper  gnawed  my  faith  in  two. 
The  good  folks  back  in  Sepo  took  away 
The  purse  they  lent  and  left  me  high  and  dry. 
So  I  came  back  and  learned  the  barber's  trade, 
And  here  I  am.     But  when  I  save  enough 
I  mean  to  start  a  little  magazine 
To  show  what  is  the  matter.     Do  you  know? 

It's  something  on  the  shelf  —  not  booze  or  jam: 
It's  that  old  bible,  precious  family  bible, 


STARVED  ROCK 

That  record  of  the  Hebrew  thought  and  life  — 

That  book  that  takes  a  course  of  years  to  study, 

Requires  Aramaic,  Hebrew,  Greek  and  Coptic 

And  epigraphy,  metaphysics,  not 

Because  the  book  itself  is  rich  in  these 

But  just  because  when  you  would  know  a  book 

In  every  character  and  turn  of  phrase 

And  know  what's  back  of  it  and  went  into  it 

You  draw  the  learning  of  the  world,  that's  all. 

Take  Plato,  if  you  will,  and  study  him 

After  this  manner,  you  will  travel  far 

In  every  land  and  realm.     But  this  is  nothing. 

The  preachers  are  a  handful  to  the  world. 

They  eat  this  dead  stuff  like  bacteria 

That  clean  away  decay.     The  harm  is  here 

Among  the  populace,  the  country,  all 

That  makes  for  life  as  life. 

See  what  I  mean? 

We  have  three  thousand  people  in  this  town. 
Say  in  this  state  there  are  a  thousand  towns, 
And  say  in  every  town  on  every  Sunday 
In  every  year  this  book  is  taught  and  preached 
To  every  human  being  from  the  time 
It's  five  years  old  as  long  as  it  will  stand 
And  let  itself  be  taught  —  what  have  you  done? 
You  have  created,  kept  intact  a  body, 
An  audience  and  voting  strength  —  for  whom, 
The  reformer,  the  fanatic,  non-conformist, 
The  man  of  principle  who  wants  a  law 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEPO 

And  those  who,  whether  consciously  or  not, 
Live  in  the  illusion  that  there  is  an  end, 
A  consummation,  fifth  act  to  this  world, 
Millennium,  as  they  say;  and  at  the  last 
When  you  get  rid  of  sin  (but  they  must  say 
What  sin  is)  then  the  world  will  be  at  peace, 
Life  finished,  perfect,  nothing  more  to  do 
But  tend  to  business  and  enjoy  yourself 
And  die  in  peace,  reach  heaven.     Don't  you  see? 
These  people  are  deluded.     For  this  stuff 
Called  life  is  like  a  pan  of  bread  you  knead: 
You  push  it  down  one  place  and  up  it  puffs 
In  another  place.     And  so  while  they  control 
The  stuff  of  life  through  Hebrew  influence 
Of  duty,  business,  fear,  ascetism 
And  yes,  materialism,  for  it  is  that, 
The  dough  escaped,  puffs  out,  the  best  of  it, 
Its  greater,  part  escapes  us.     So  I  say 
That  bible  taught  in  every  village,  hamlet 
And  all  its  precepts,  curses,  notables, 
Preached  fifty  times  a  year  creates  the  crowd 
That  runs  the  country  at  the  bidding  of 
Your  mediocrities,  your  little  statesmen, 
Your  little  editors  and  moralists. 
And  that's  your  culture,  your  American 
Kultur.  .   .   . 

I'll  finish  you  with  eggs,  it's  better 
Than  soap  is  for  the  hair.     You've  lots  of  time. 
I  think  I'll  start  my  magazine  next  year. 
[143] 


STARVED  ROCK 

Step  down  this  way  —  over  the  bowl,  that's  it  — 

A  moment  while  I  ring  this  money  up. 

As  I  was  saying  —  is  the  water  cold  ?  — 

Now  back  into  the  chair  —  as  I  was  saying 

That  book  upon  the  shelf  has  made  our  culture. 

We  must  undo  it.   .  . 

Yes,  your  train  is  whistling  —  so  long! 


THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  NOW 

Let's  sit  here  very  quiet,  self-controlled, 
Talk  quietly,  under  this  glorious  tree, 
The  internes  are  too  far  away  to  hear. 
They  will  stand  there  if  we  are  calm. 

You  look 

Much  better  than  you  did.     And  as  for  me, 
Since  I  tried  leaping  from  my  window,  I 
Seem  on  the  mend,  sleep  better,  do  not  feel 
So  much  like  running,  flying  from  the  fears 
As  I  did  three  weeks  since.     Here  is  my  tale: 

My  first  step  in  this  world  was  as  a  soldier, 
Turned  seventeen  and  off  to  free  the  Cubans. 
I  landed  at  Matanzas,  served  my  time. 
Oh  Liberty!     Oh!  struggles  to  make  free 
All  peoples,  everywhere!     And  when  I  saw 
The  American  republic  move  to  strike 
The  chains  of  tyranny,  I  said:     I  die 
For  such  a  cause,  or  live  to  see  it  won  — 
How  glorious!     My  youthful  mind  was  full 
Of  Byron,  Shelley,  Paine,  and  many  more  — 
And  when  I  saw  my  republic  go  to  war, 
Just  as  a  good  Samaritan,  I  said, 

[145] 


STARVED  ROCK 

This  is  my  hour,  I'm  on  the  pinnacle, 
Life  is  divine  at  last. 


But  on  a  sudden 

A  north  wind  froze  my  waters,  caught  my  stars 
To  points  of  vision  which  before  had  been 
Mixed  in  the  fluent  time.     We  up  and  stole 
The  Philippines,  spit  on  our  sacred  charter, 
Turned  all  the  thing  to  guts,  until  I  heard 
Their  growl  alone  which  I  thought  spirit  voices 
When  we  had  warred  for  Cuba !     'Twas  enough ; 
What  was  my  country?     Just  a  mass  of  slickers 
Talking  philanthropy  and  five  per  cent, 
A  pious,  blundering  booby  lodged  at  last 
In  a  great  caecum  mouthing  Destiny. 
God,  with  a  leader  just  an  actor-man, 
Clean  shaven,  shifty,  shallow,  whored  upon 
By  mercantilists  and  their  butcher  creed. 
I  mean  McKinley,  Hanna.     Write  it  down: 
They  barbarized  our  Grecian  temple,  placed 
Cheap  colored  windows  in  its  marble  walls  — 
May  history  be  their  hell. 

But  as  for  me, 

They  talked  of  God  so  much,  I  said  at  last 
I'll  learn  all  they  can  teach  concerning  God. 
This  restless  soldier  spirit  led  me  on, 
And  just  because  I  sensed  the  faithless  age, 
Loveless  and  purposeless  except  for  gold, 
The  adventurer  in  me  began  to  crop. 


THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  NOW 

Oh  yes,  the  Cuban  business  started  me. 

And  so  I  went  to  college  to  prepare 

For  the  ministry,  as  they  thought,  go  through  the  course 

Called  theological,  saying  for  the  first: 

"  They'd  never  know  me  now." 


I  see  at  last 

I  am  not  one  but  many  minds  at  once, 
And  many  personalities.     As  a  boy 
I  took  the  color  of  the  leaves  or  wall 
Where  I  was  resting,  climbing.     If  in  truth 
I  lived  three  months  with  an  uncle,  then  they  said 
You  look  just  like  your  uncle.     When  I  worked 
Under  a  lawyer's  tutelage,  they  said: 
How  much  your  face  resembles  his.     I  knew 
My  face  and  voice  and  gestures  simulated 
Those  I  admired  or  lived  with.     But  besides 
I  took  a  certain  pleasure,  impish,  maybe, 
In  egging  on,  agreeing  with,  the  souls 
Whom  I  sought  out;  I  used  to  tell  my  uncle, 
A  man  of  firmest  piety,  what  I  heard 
Of  blasphemy  about  the  village,  just 
To  hear  him  deprecate  it,  look  with  dark 
And  flashing  eyes  upon  such  sin,  while  I, 
With  serious  face  and  earnest  sympathy 
With  what  he  felt,  was  laughing  in  my  sleeve. 
Here  is  the  germ  then  of  my  after  life: 
The  faculty  that  harmonized  my  hue 
Of  spirit  with  the  place,  the  person,  while 


STARVED  ROCK 

Something  in  me,  perhaps  supremest  self, 
Stood  quite  aloof  and  smiled. 


But,  as  I  said, 

When  our  Republic  left  its  hill  of  vision, 
Descended  to  the  place  of  herding  hogs, 
This  self  of  me,  the  adventurer,  rose  up 
And  led  me  forth  to  play  with  life,  and  first 
To  try  theology,  as  I  have  said  .  .  . 
I  was  a  wonder  bred  among  the  crew 
Of  quiet,  gate-toothed,  crook-nosed  psychopaths, 
The  foul-breathed,  thick-lipped  onanists  who  filled 
The  seminary,  stared  at  me  to  see 
How  I  learned  Sanscrit,  could  defend  and  rout 
The  atheistic  speculations.     Well, 
What  I  enjoyed  most  was  to  get  a  crowd 
Of  celibates  and  talk  of  chastity, 
And  get  them  in  a  glow,  and  say  to  them : 
The  mind  is  fortified  by  abstinence, 
The  spirit  clarified  and  lifted  up  — 
I  got  a  thrill  somehow.     But  all  the  time 
I  knew  a  girl  named  Ella.     Oftentimes 
Lying  beside  her  I  would  shriek  with  laughter 
And  she  would  ask,  what  is  the  matter,  John  ? 
And  I  would  say:     I'm  thinking  of  a  song 
I  heard  one  time:     "They'd  never  know  me  now." 
And  Ella  said:     If  Dr.  Simpson  knew 
That  you  were  here  with  me,  you'd  take  a  fall 
Out  of  the  Seminary's  second  floor.  .  .  . 
[148] 


THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  NOW 

But  I  went  through  and  didn't  fall.     And  thought 
This  is  a  way  to  live,  I'll  preach  awhile, 
And  see  what  comes.     I  took  a  church  and  preached, 
Was  known  as  Smith  the  eloquent,  the  earnest. 
But  all  the  time  I  heard  a  voice  that  said : 
'  They'd  never  know  me  now."     When  I  came  in 
The  Sunday  School  and  little  children  flocked 
About  my  knees  and  patient  teachers  looked 
With  white,  pure  faces  at  me,  then  that  voice 
"  They'd  never  know  me  now  "  was  in  my  car.  .  .  . 

Well,  to  go  on,  a  widow  in  my  church 

Young,  beautiful  and  rich  began  to  beat 

Her  wings  around  my  flame,  and  on  the  Sunday 

I  preached  about  the  rich  young  man,  she  came, 

Invited  me  to  dinner.     We  commenced, 

Were  married  in  six  months.     And  to  conserve 

Her  properties  I  studied  law,  at  last 

Was  spending  days  with  brokers,   business  men, 

Began  to  tell  her  that  my  health  was  failing, 

Saw  doctors  frequently  to  play  the  part. 

And  then  she  said:     You  must  resign  your  charge, 

Your  health  is  breaking,  dear.     And  I  resigned 

To  spend  the  time  in  checking  mortgages, 

Collecting  rents: — "They'd  never  know  me  now"  , 

We  went  the  round  of  summer  places,  travel, 
Saw  Europe,  China,  India  and  the  Isles. 
Near  Florence  had  a  villa  for  a  time, 
Met  people  of  all  kinds,  when  I  was  forty 

[149] 


STARVED  ROCK 

I  had  a  thousand  selves,  but  if  I  had 

A  self  in  truth  it  was  submerged  or  scrawled 

Like  a  palimpsest  all  over  and  so  lost. 

I  didn't  know  myself,  was  anything 

To  every  one,  and  everything  to  all. 

I  felt  the  walking  age  come  on  me  now: 

A  polar  bear  in  a  terrible  rhythm  swings 

His  body  back  and  forth  behind  the  bars, 

And  I  would  walk  in  restlessness  or  think 

Of  other  skies  and  places,  teased  and  stung 

By  memories  of  my  other  selves,  by  wonder 

About  what  may  be  happening  here  or  there; 

What  are  they  doing  now?     What  is  she  doing? 

There  were  a  dozen  shes  to  wonder  about, 

And  if  you  think  of  one  you  wish  to  see, 

And  dream  she  knows  delight  apart  from  you, 

You  simply  thrill,  the  wings  you  lost  revolve, 

Like  thumbs,  vestigial  stubs  —  but  there  you  sit. 

Thank  God  the  aeroplane  came  on  to  help, 

And  wipe  out  distance,  for  you  find  at  last 

Distance  is  tragedy,  terrifies  the  soul 

With  space  which  must  be  mastered  by  the  soul. 

And  so  I  bought  a  hydroplane.     Perhaps 
Would  be  upon  my  lawn  at  sun-down  holding 
These  children  on  my  knees,  a  lovely  picture ! 
Then  as  a  fish  darts  out  of  darkened  water 
Into  a  water  sun-lit,  there  would  come 
A  thought  —  we'll  say  of  Alice  —  in  two  hours 
I'd  be  upon  her  little  sleeping  porch 
[150] 


THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  NOW 

Two  hundred  miles  away,  beneath  the  stars 
Of  middle  summer,  having  killed  that  space, 
And  found  the  hour  I  wanted  —  hearing  too 
"  They'd  never  know  me  now  "  sung  in  my  ears. 

And  I  remember  when  we  were  in  Florence 

My  tribe  had  gone  to  Milan  for  some  weeks, 

And  I  was  quite  alone,  too  bored  to  live. 

One  listless  afternoon  who  should  come  in? 

My  wife's  friend  Constance  —  but  to  tell  the  truth 

More  friend  of  mine  than  hers,  for  all  my  life 

I  seemed  to  have  these  secret  understandings, 

And  was  two  persons  to  a  twain  who  thought 

They  were  the  bond,  whereas  the  bond  existed 

Between  myself  and  one,  and  to  the  other 

Was  not  so  much  as  dreamed. 

And  Constance  brought 
A  certain  Countess  with  her.     In  a  glance 
We  two,  the  Countess  and  myself,  beheld 
A  flame  that  joined  our  hands.     And  in  a  week 
The  Countess  took  me  on  her  yacht  to  Capri, 
And  round  the  Mediterranean.     No  one  knew, 
Not  Constance,  nor  my  wife,  for  I  returned 
Before  she  came  from  Milan. 

Oh  that  week! 

That  breeze  that  sung  the  port-holes,  waters  blue 
And  stars  at  night  and  music;  and  the  Countess 
Whose  voice  was  like  a  lute  of  gold,  who  lived, 
[ISO 


STARVED  ROCK 

Knew  life,  was  unafraid.     She  heard  me  say 

"  They'd  never  know  me  now."     And  softly  murmured 

Smiling  the  while:  il  lupo  cangia 

II  pelo  ma  non  il  vizio 

Adding,  Qual  matto!     Something  yet  remains 

That  makes  you  charming!     Oh  the  feasts  and  wine, 

The  songs  and  poems,  till  at  last  too  soon 

We  anchored  in  the  bay  of  Naples.     When 

I  saw  Vesuvius,  then  I  felt  again 

That  sinking  of  the  heart  that  I  had  known, 

That  sickness,  strange,  nostalgia,  from  a  boy, 

Of  which  a  word  again.     But  now  it  was 

Precursive  of  the  end,  the  finished  idyll. 

The  Countess  took  my  hand,  with  misty  eyes  — 

They  let  me  off  and  rowed  me  to  the  dock, 

I  caught  the  train  to  Florence,  magically 

Before  I  had  forgotten,  seemed  to  be 

Upon  the  yacht  still,  was  in  truth  alone 

Amid  the  silence  of  my  dining  room, 

Supping  alone — "They'd  never  know  me  now!" 

Later  I  had  the  fever,  was  delirious 
And  saw  myself  receding  as  if  backing 
Into  a  funnel  toward  the  little  end, 
And  growing  smaller  as  the  funnel  narrowed 
Until  I  was  so  small  I  held  myself 
Within  the  palm's  hand  of  my  other  self, 
Laughed  like  a  devil,  scared  the  nurse  to  death, 
Saying  "They'd  never  know  me  now  — just  look!" 
My  wife  too  had  the  fever.     I  awoke 
[152] 


THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  NOW 

Out  of  this  illness,  found  that  she  was  gone, 

Had  died  a  week  before  and  for  a  week 

Had  been  entombed  while  I  was  raving  —  then 

If  any  real  self  of  me  ever  was  it  came 

Back  to  me  then.     I  bowed  my  head  and  wept 

And  scanned  my  life  back: 

What  was  that  in  me 

Which  made  me  homesick  from  a  boy  right  through 
This  life  of  mine,  not  for  my  home,  for  something, 
Some  place,  some  hand,  some  scene,  which  made  me  dread 
All  partings,  overwhelmed  me  with  a  grief 
For  ended  raptures,  kept  my  brain  too  full 
Of  memories,  never  lost,  that  grew  until 
I  lost  myself,  and  seemed  a  thousand  selves 
Wandering  through  a  thousand  years,  how  restless! 

Then  mutterings  shook  our  skies!     Another  war, 

France,  Germany  and  England,  so  it  seemed 

Best  to  return  here  to  America. 

I  gathered  up  the  children  —  all  but  one, 

The  boy  eighteen  escaped  me,  ran  away 

And  joined  the  English  army.     Now  I  saw 

One  self  of  me  repeated,  that  which  went 

To  free  the  Cubans!     Curse  these  freedom  wars! 

They  shipped  him  off  to  India,  soon  he  had 

His  fill  of  liberty.     But  I  came  back 

And  here  I  am.     "They'd  never  know  me  now!" 

[153] 


STARVED  ROCK 

For  what  is  left  of  me,  what  ever  was 

To  be  peeled  off  to  realest  core  ?     The  soldier 

Gone  out  of  me  entirely;  long  ago, 

The  dreamer  of  a  better  world;  the  self 

That  said  I'm  on  the  pinnacle,  took  arms 

To  free  the  Cubans;  self  of  me  that  hungered 

For  pyramids  and  mountains,  ancient  streams, 

Nile  and  the  Ganges ;  self  of  me  that  turned 

To  be  a  father  holding  on  his  knees 

A  romping  bevy ;  self  of  me  that  dreamed 

One  heart,  one  hand  enough,  oh  even  the  self 

That  dreamed  there  is  a  hand  a  heart  for  me, 

Who  found  in  truth  no  solace  in  the  wife 

But  only  a  teasing,  torturing  recollection 

That  I  had  missed  the  one,  or  missed  the  many. 

So  I  was  in  America  again, 

Had  fled  the  war  and  plunged  into  the  war:  — 

The  waves  roared  yonder,  but  the  shores  were  here 

Where  wreckage,  putrid  monsters  were  thrown  up, 

Corpses  of  ancient  liberties  and  bones 

Ot  treasured  beauty;  and  I  saw  the  Land 

Don  every  despot  weapon,  as  it  did 

When  I  fought  for  the  Cubans,  even  worse. 

They  shipped  my  boy  to  Africa;  in  spite 

Of  censorship  I  pieced  the  picture  out, 

Knew  what  he  suffered,  how  they  took  his  faith 

And  dimmed  its  flame  with  ordure.     Then  came  forth 

That  father  self  of  me.     I  brooded  on 

His  blue  eyes,  gentle  ways,  sat  terrified 

[154] 


THEY'D  NEVER  KNOW  ME  NOW 

And  tried  to  trace  the  days  through  and  the  years 

When  he  had  slipped  from  just  a  little  boy 

Into  a  stripling,  soldier  finally  - 

While  I  —  what  was  I  doing?     Oh,  my  God, 

Living  these  other  selves,  oblivious 

That  this  boy  was.     I'd  jump  from  soundest  sleep 

Thinking  of  him  in  Africa,  and  seized 

With  dreams  that  I  must  fly  to  him.     O  years 

Wherein  I  lost  that  boy.     How  could  I  live 

So  many  lives  and  not  lose  out  of  some, 

Some  precious  thing?     Well,  then  I  broke  at  last, 

They  brought  me  here :     "  They'd  never  know  me  now." 


NEL  MEZZO  DEL  CAMMIN 

You  call  this  a  world!     Cloud  cuckoo  town, 

Nephelo  coccygia,  warp  and  woof, 

Now  at  the  last  I  write  it  down, 

Since  I  no  longer  have  the  proof 

To  show  it  isn't  opera  bouffe, 

A  moving  picture  film  and  scene; 

Stage  world,  with  the  glue  between 

The  angels'  feathers,  the  devil's  hoof 

Neither  violent  nor  venene. 

#  *  *  *  » 

Eheu!     The  middle  of  the  way  too  — 
Gethsemane  and  left  in  the  lurch. 
Storms  frowning  up  the  dying  day  too, 
Bending  a  weed  that  was  a  birch. 
I  can  step  right  over  the  tallest  church. 
Trumpets  have  shrunk  to  trumpet  toys, 
Tottle-te-toot !     I  hear  the  clocks 
Ticking  in  paper  breasts.     What  noise! 
Gorges  and  towering  rocks 
Are  just  the  canvas  He  employs, 
With  gelatine  rivers  and  candy  lochs, 
Shored  in  with  painted  blocks. 

I  passed  through  a  jungle  where  smoky  mosses 
Hung  from  the  trees,  the  crocodile 
[156] 


NEL  MEZZO  DEL  CAMMIN 

Slept  or  clambered  about  the  fosses; 
Buzzards  roosting,   not  very  vile; 
Rivers  of  red-ink  shed  for  crosses. 
Centaurs  with  arrows  file  on  file 
Drew  and  shouted :  he  seems  to  smile 
Let's  make  him  weep  a  while. 

Look  out  for  the  lion!     Said  I,  with  a  scowl, 

Let  the  lion  growl: 

Cat-gut  scraped  in  the  painted  wings. 

Does  the  terrible  tiger  howl: 

Tin  cans  and  resined  strings. 

Do  the  dead  gibber  and  does  the  owl 

Hoot  where  the  shroud  is  slipping,  clings? 

Who  pressed  the  squeaky  springs 

In  the  death  bird  that  it  sings? 

And  you,  sir!     Well,  one  time  I  was  sure 

You  carried  a  poisoned  dart! 

And  now  you're  empty  space  as  pure 

As  the  sky  when  clouds  are  blown  apart. 

Ether!     Radium!     Nothing!     A  cure 

For  grit  and  dust  which  start 

Grief  in  this  Waterbury  heart. 

For  I  had  trod  the  cobra,  found 
He  is  but  calico,  cotton  stuffed. 
The  boa  chased  me  round  and  round, 
Hyenas  tracked  me,  licked  and  snuried, 

[157] 


STARVED  ROCK 

And  made  my  poor  heart  flutter  and  pound, 
Until  I  saw  the  mirror  is  all, 
And  the  wood  became  a  rare-bit  dream 
With  monstrous  faces  and  figures  packed. 
And  then  you  ask:     Is  the  mirror  cracked, 
Or  is  it  so  bright  that  it  casts  a  beam 
Through  all  the  shadow  scheme? 

One  time  I  saw  a  river's  bank 

Shaved  down  with  spades  as  sheer  as  a  wall, 

Wasp  holes,  snake  holes  cut  in  two 

Brought  these  molds  of  earth  to  view. 

I  turned  away  where  the  air  was  blank 

And  here  was  a  thing  fantastical : 

Space  was  cored  like  the  honey  comb 

With  forms  of  things  that  crawl  and  roam, 

Animals,  men.     As  I  am  alive 

I  saw  the  form  of  a  horse  and  cow 

Edged  with  air  and  hollow  as  space. 

But  a  horse  and  cow  began  to  thrive 

In  just  a  second,  a  drifting  mist 

Flowed  into  the  molds  before  my  face. 

And  the  animals  moved,  I  don't  know  how, 

Out  of  the  all  surrounding  mesh, 

Creatures  of  bone  and  flesh! 

And  it  was  just  the  same  with  men.     I  vow 
I  saw  an  astral  stuff  poured  in 
Pockets  of  air  and  men  became 
Voices  talking  of  good  and  evil, 

[158] 


NEL  MEZZO  DEL  CAMMIN 

Virtue,  courage,  vice  and  sin, 
God  and  the  devil. 

For  the  all  unfolding  Air  is  what? 

The  Great  Idea,  if  so  I  may  say, 

A  sort  of  Ocean  leaping  to  waves. 

And  what  do  you  care  if  they  pass  away? 

They  sink  to  their  source,  not  into  graves. 

Beasts  may  vanish,   races  decay, 

The  Ocean  will  always  remain  the  same; 

With  new  waves  rising,  no  two  alike; 

Waves  that  are  little  and  waves  that  rise 

In  storms  and  touch  the  skies. 

R.  Browning,  you  were  a  man  of  power, 
But  I  don't  think  much  of  your  tower. 
And  I  see  no  use  of  blowing  a  horn, 
The  tower  is  merely  papier-mache, 
And  comes  no  higher  than  to  my  knees. 
I  step  right  over  it  —  pick  a  flower, 
Purple,  it  may  be,  called  heart's  ease 
And  go  with  the  way  of  the  seas. 

For  I  am  an  optimist  better  than  you: 
This  dream  is  hell,  but  it's  all  to  the  good: 
The  Ocean  is  water  in  calm  or  flood. 
There's  nothing  wrecked,  or  wrongly  wrought, 
There's  nothing  real  but  Thought! 


[159] 


THE  OAK  TREE 

The  oak  in  later  August, 
Before  his  leaves  are  strewn, 
And  the  sky  is  blue  as  June, 
Trembles  from  trunk  to  branches 
For  frosts  that  will  be  soon 
From  the  valleys  of  the  moon! 

For  breezes  blown  in  August 
Veer  north  with  cold  and  rain; 
And  the  oak  tree  sighs  and  shivers 
For  lights  that  shift  and  wane: 
As  a  strong  man  sees  the  specters 
Of  age,  disease  and  pain, 
The  oak  flings  up  to  heaven 
His  branches  in  the  rain. 

September  comes,  September 
Spreads  out  a  sky  that  chills. 
The  owl  hoots  and  the  cricket 
Beside  the  roadway  shrills, 
And  on  the  stricken  hills. 
But  the  oak  tree,  the  oak  tree 
Still  flaunts  his  shining  leaves. 
No  change  has  come  but  swallows 
Who  fled  the  summer  eaves ! 
[160] 


THE  OAK  TREE 

But  when  October  breezes, 
And  cold  November  gales 
Descend  upon  the  oak  tree 
What  strength  of  him  avails, 
Grown  naked  to  the  tempest, 
For  life  that  sleeps  and  fails? 
O  oak  tree,  oak  tree, 
The  winter  snow  prevails! 
It  cannot  be  your  branches, 
It  is  the  wind  that  wails! 


[161] 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

Eagle,  your  broken  wings  are  tangled 

Among  the  mountain  ferns 

On  a  ledge  of  rock  on  high. 

Below  the  yawning  chasm  turns 

To  blackness,  but  the  evening  planet  burns 

Above  the  gulf  in  a  gold  and  purple  sky! 

Vultures  and  kites 

Fly  to  their  rookeries 

In  the  rocks 

With  swift  and  ragged  wings  against  the  lights. 

From  levels  and  from  leas 

Haste  the  returning  flocks. 

Foxes  have  holes  and  serpents  the  grass  for  flight. 

Eagle,  arise!     It  is  night. 

The  world's  wanderer  finds  you 

As  he  climbs  the  mountains 

In  the  unending  quest. 

Can  you  spread  wings  across  the  darkening  chasm 

To  the  craggy  nest, 

Where  the  foreboding  mate  lies  still? 

Croak  for  the  evening  star, 

And  beat  your  shattered  wings  against  your  breast! 

Across  the  gulf  the  wanderer  sees  afar 

A  light  in  the  house  on  the  hill ! 


WASHINGTON  HOSPITAL 

That's  right,  sponge  off  his  face.     My  name?     Oh,  yes, 

James  Frothingham,  a  reverend,  have  the  church 

At  the  corner  of  Ayer  and  Knox  Streets,  Methodist. 

As  I  was  passing  by  a  vile  saloon 

Some  men  were  entering  the  back  room,  saying 

Is  he  dead  or  drunk,  and  such  things.     I  looked  in, 

Went  in  at  last  and  saw  this  fellow  there, 

Hunched,  doubled  down  into  a  chair  asleep, 

Mud  on  his  face  as  you  saw,  clothes  bespattered, 

The  smell  of  drink  upon  him.     Then  we  took  him 

And  brought  him  here,  I  helped,  a  Christian  duty. 

But  more  important,  if  he  wakes  I'm  here 

To  bring  his  soul  to  Christ  before  he  dies  — 

And  he  is  dying.     Yes,  it's  plain  enough 

The  snows  of  death  are  falling.     Sponge  his  face, 

And  wash  his  hands!     I  never  saw  such  hands 

Slender  and  beautiful!     Now  you  have  sponged 

His  face,  look  at  that  brow  —  it  terrifies  — 

He  looks  now  like  a  god  —  who  is  this  man? 

I'll  tell  you  all  I  know:     These  men  were  talking 

And  this  is  what  they  said:     This  is  the  fellow 

They  voted  yesterday  from  booth  to  booth, 

They  voted  him  twenty  times,  and  kept  him  drunk 

To  vote  him.     First  they  found  him  at  the  station, 

A  little  tipsy,  talking  of  his  griefs. 


STARVED   ROCK 

The  conductor  put  him  off  here,  being  drunk. 
And  so  these  fellows  for  election  day 
Took  him  in  hand  and  voted  him  around, 
This  was  the  talk. 

Look  at  the  curse  of  drink! 
If  he  had  touched  no  drink,  he  had  not  been 
Tipsy  to  fall  into  these  ruffian  hands, 
Who  gave  him  drink  and  drink  and  used  him  thus 
To  violate  the  suffrage,  lose  his  life 
Through  drink,  as  he  will  lose  it.     He  is  dying, 
Death  comes  of  Sin  —  what  plainer  truth  than  this? 
Sin  blinds,  too,  for  that  brow  could  comprehend 
All  things  by  using  what  God  gave  to  it. 
I  do  not  know  his  name,  with  your  permission 
I'll  search  his  pockets  —  yes,  here  is  a  letter  — 
No  signature,  looks  like  a  draught  —  I'll  read: 

"  Why  have  you  wounded  me  with  words  like  these: 

4  He  has  great  genius  but  no  moral  sense,' 

And  written  to  another!     Oh  my  love! 

By  this  love  which  I  bear  you,  by  the  God 

Who  reigns  in  heaven  do  I  swear  to  you 

My  soul  is  like  a  wandering  star,  consumed 

By  its  own  passion,  fire,  and  the  eternal 

Longing  for  the  eternal,  wandering,  erring, 

But  flaming,  loving  light,  aspiring  to 

The  Light  of  Lights,  some  sun,  I  do  not  know. 

It  is  incapable  of  aught  but  honor. 

And  save  for  follies,  trifles  in  excess, 


WASHINGTON  HOSPITAL 

Which  I  lament,  but  which  in  men  of  wealth, 
Or  worldly  power  would  never  raise  a  word, 
I  can  recall  no  act  of  mine  to  bring 
A  blush  to  your  cheek  or  to  mine. 

My  love, 

My  erring  which  has  counted,  by  the  test 
Of  strength  or  weakness  for  the  game  of  life, 
Has  been  Quixotic  honor,  chivalry. 
And  to  indulge  this  feeling  I  have  paid, 
Though  it  has  been  my  true  voluptuousness, 
My  highest,  purest  pleasure.     Yes,  for  this 
I  threw  away  a  fortune,  glad  to  throw  it, 
Rather  than  suffer  wrong,  though  trivial, 
As  worldly  men  would  count  it :  —  for  a  father's 
Laughter  at  my  writing  turned  away 
To  follow  voices,  and  defied  his  will 
To  harness  me  to  business.     So  it  is 
To  keep  my  spirit  spotless  from  the  world, 
As  I  have  visioncd  things,  I  came  at  last 
By  this  deserted  shore,  alone,  alone, 
Now  quite  alone  since  you  withdrew  yourself, 
Took  back  your  hand  and  left  me  to  my  way, 
Traveled  so  long  that  I  can  see  the  tomb 
At  the  vista's  end  not  very  far. 

Oh,  love, 

Why  is  there  not  a  heart  that  loves  but  mine? 
If  you  had  been  a  Magdalen,  I  had  pressed 
Your  head  against  my  breast  and  kept  you  there- 


STARVED   ROCK 

But  you  —  my  spirit  drifts  with  stricken  wings  — 

But  you  because  of  gossip,  crawling  words 

About  my  drinking,  lies  as  I  shall  prove, 

Can  hold  a  handkerchief  upon  your  eyes 

To  hide  tumultuous  tears,  extend  your  hand 

And  say  farewell  forever,  cut  our  lives 

Of  days  or  months,  fragile  and  trivial 

Asunder  —  when  your  hand,  your  faith,  your  love 

Had  cured  me  of  my  spirit's  desolation, 

My  terror  of  this  solitude  in  life  — 

Or  if  it  cured  me  not,  I  had  been  eased, 

And  you  had  gained  for  giving  —  what  have  you 

For  your  decision?     Sorrow,  if  you  love  me, 

Perhaps  a  conscience  whisper  that  you  failed 

In  justice,  sacrifice ;  perhaps  the  thought 

Life  with  me  drinking,  to  the  excess  you  thought, 

Is  better  than  a  life  where  I  am  not. 

What  have  you  gained  ?     In  a  few  years  we  two 

Will  be  at  one  with  earth  —  before  it  comes 

Are  not  sweet  hours  together  worth  the  cost 

Of  a  little  drink?     You  who  have  riches,  need  not 

My  labors  for  your  bread,  but  need  my  love, 

Which  you  crush  out.     But  as  to  drink,  I  swear 

I  do  not  drink." 

Ahem !  the  fellow  stirs 

But  will  not  wake,  I  fear.     You  heard  that  last: 
He  swears  he  does  not  drink.     Drink  and  untruth 
Go  always  hand  in  hand.     This  letter's  long  — 
Let's  see  what  he  comes  up  with  at  the  last: 
[166] 


WASHINGTON  HOSPITAL 

"  But  as  to  drink,  I  swear  I  do  not  drink  — 

How  if  I  drank  could  I  produce  the  works 

I  have  produced?     A  giant's  task,  when  drink 

Sustains  me  not,  is  not  my  nutriment 

As  hock  and  soda  water  were  for  Byron, 

But  sets  me  flaming  wild,  a  little  drink 

Will  set  me  flaming,  poisons  me,  I  know. 

And  yet  I  must  partake  of  drink  sometimes 

For  life  is  flying,  is  recession,  we 

Are  shrinking  back  into  ourselves,  at  last 

The  arms  we  shrank  from  close  about  us  —  death's. 

And  there  are  souls  born  lonely ;  I  am  one. 

And  gifted  with  the  glance  of  looking  through 

The  shams,  the  opera  bouffe,  and  I  am  one. 

Often  after  a  stretch  of  toil  when  I 

Come  out  of  the  trance  of  writing  spent  and  wracked, 

I  used  to  walk  to  High  Bridge,  sit  and  muse, 

(For  this  brain  never  stops  and  that's  my  curse,) 

Upon  this  monstrous  world  and  why  it  is; 

And  why  the  souls  who  love  the  beautiful, 

And  love  it  only  and  are  doomed  to  speak 

Its  wonder  and  its  terror  are  alone, 

Misunderstood  and  hunted,  fouled  by  falsehood, 

Have  crumbs  upon  the  steps,  are  licked  by  dogs, 

Or  else  are  starved.     And  why  it  is  that  I 

Must  go  about,  a  beggar,  with  my  songs 

Exchanging  them  for  bread.     And  then  it  is 

When  this  poor  brain  like  the  creative  stuff, 

The  central  purpose,  whirls,  as  I  have  written, 

And  will  not  stop  —  drink!  for  oblivion, 

[167] 


STARVED   ROCK 

For  rest,  to  get  away  from  self,  back  faster 
From  the  pursuing  Nothing. 

Yet,  my  love, 

Think  out  what  causes  judgments,  standards,  tastes; 
And  why  it  was  that  Southey,  Wordsworth  won 
The  organic  national  praise  and  Shelley  lost, 
And  Byron  lost  it  —  Southey  the  sycophant, 
Wordsworth  the  dull  adherent,  renegade  — 
These  two  against  these  spirits  who  came  here 
To  sing  of  Liberty  —  and  look  at  me, 
A  wanderer  and  a  poor,  rejected  man, 
While  usurers,  slave  owners  rule  the  land, 
And  the  cities  reek  with  hypocrites,  who  step 
On  Freedom  and  on  Beauty,  are  rewarded, 
Praised,  fed  and  honored  for  it.     Then  behold 
Your  friend  who  loves  you,  hunted,  buffeted, 
For  a  little  drink,  when  in  spite  of  drink  and  even 
Because  of  drink,  who  knows?     I  have  achieved, 
Written  these  books.     And  what  is  life  beside, 
Whether  with  drink  or  whether  with  abstinence, 
Except  to  sing  your  song  and  die,  what  course 
Can  stave  the  event,  the  wage  of  life,  not  sin? 
Oh  if  you  knew  what  love  I  have  for  you! 
All  of  my  powers  are  not  enough  to  tell 
How  all  my  heart  is  yours,  how  I  have  found 
Eternal  things  through  you,  cannot  surrender 
Your  love,  your  heart,  without  I  lose  some  life, 
Some  vital  part  of  me  —  and  yet  farewell, 
For  you  have  willed  it  so,  and  I  submit. 
[168] 


WASHINGTON  HOSPITAL 

I  rise  up  in  my  loneliness,  seek  the  sun 
To  shine  about  me  in  my  loneliness, 
Submit  and  say  farewell." 

He  spoke  some  words! 

What  was  it  that  he  said?     His  head  rolls  over. 
The  man  is  dead!     What  was  it  that  he  said? 
Something  about  "  no  more  "  it  seemed  to  me. 
Whom  shall  we  notify?     Go  tell  the  police! 
Here!  wait,  I  overlooked  some  writing  —  yes, 
A  name  is  on  this  letter  —  why,  look  here, 
It's  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE!  —  I  know  that  name  — 
He  wrote  a  poem  once  about  sleigh  bells  — 
His  brow  looks  whiter,  bigger  than  it  did. 
Cover  him  with  a  sheet  —  I'll  tell  the  police! 


NEITHER  FAITH  NOR  BEAUTY  CAN 
REMAIN 

Neither  faith  nor  beauty  can  remain: 

Change  is  our  life  from  hour  to  hour, 

Pain  follows  after  pain, 

As  ruined  flower  lies  down  with  ruined  flower. 

***** 

Now  you  are  mine.     But  in  a  day  to  be 
Beyond  the  seas,  in  cities  strange  and  new 
To-day  will  be  a  memory 
Of  a  day  ephemerally  true. 

***** 

Last  night  with   cheek  pressed  close  to  cheek 
Through  the  brief  hours  we  slept. 
It  must  be  always  so,  I  heard  you  speak, 
Love  found,  forever  must  be  kept. 

***** 

But  already  we  were  changed,  even  as  the  day 
Invisibly   transforms   its   light. 
We  prayed  together  then  for  dawn's  delay, 
Praying,  praying  through  the  night. 

***** 

Against  the  change  which  takes  all  loveliness, 
The  truth  our  desperate  hearts  would  keep, 

[170] 


NEITHER  FAITH  NOR  BEAUTY  CAN  REMAIN 

The  memory  to  be,   when  comfortless, 
Save  for  the  memory  we  shall  yearn  for  sleep  ; 
***** 

Against  the  sinking  flame  which  no  more  lights 
Our  faces,  neither  any  more  desired 
Through  desireless  days  and  nights, 
And  senses  fast  expiring  and  expired. 


THE   END 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 

[•71] 


'HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements 
of  Macmillan  books  by  the  same  author 


NEW   MACMILLAN   POETRY 


Spoon  River  Anthology 


BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

New  edition  with  new  poems. 
With  illustrations  and  decorations  by  OLIVER  HERFORD 


"  The  first  successful  novel  in  verse  we  have  had  in  American  litera 
ture  ...  it  more  vividly  paints  a  community  than  any  other 
work  in  prose  or  verse  in  American  literature  .  .  .  it  at  once 
takes  its  place  among  those  masterpieces  which  are  not  for  a  time  or  a 
locality."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Once  possessing  the  book,  one  is  unwilling  to  part  with  it.  It  is 
too  notable  a  piece  of  American  literature  to  omit  from  one's  library." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"An  interesting  and  notable  work."  —  New  York  Post. 

"A  wonderfully  vivid  series  of  transcripts  from  real  life." —  Current 
Opinion. 

"A  big  book  and  deserves  all  the  success  it  is  having."  —  Los 
Angeles  Graphic. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  recent  publications  from  the  point 
of  view  of  originality  ...  the  work  is  striking."  —  Springfield 
Republican. 

"  It  is  a  book  which,  whether  one  likes  it  or  not,  one  must  respect." 

—  New  Republic. 

"The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  ...  the  only  poet  with 
true  Americanism  in  his  bones."  —  John  Cowper  Powys  in  New  York 
Times. 

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Songs  and  Satireb 

BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


"There  is  an  inescapable  beauty  in  their  quality  of  uncompromis 
ing  truth.  They  are  poetry  undisputably;  they  sing  with  a  grave 
music." — Reedy' s  Mirror. 

"Mr.  Masters  at  his  best.  ...  We  have  need  of  more  poems  of 
similar  quality." — Los  Angeles  Graphic. 

"There  are  not  only  moments  of  penetrating  insight  into  per 
sonality,  but  also  the  haunting  revelation  of  feeling  which  poetry 
exists  to  communicate." — Dial. 

"A  wonderful  book.  True  poetry  in  every  sense  ...  of  which 
Mr.  Masters  does  not  lack  mastery."— A rgonaut. 

"Masters  strikes  a  really  high  imaginative  note." — Independent. 
"A  true  poet  and  a  true  observer  of  life.    Every  line  is  beautiful." 

—N.  Y.  Times. 

"Mr.  Masters  has  the  poet's  vision.  He  makes  the  commonplace 
romantic,  and  ...  his  interpretations  are  highly  true  to  life." 

— Congregationalist  (Boston). 

"Places  him  in  the  unique  position  of  having  a  special  message 
and  a  singularly  compelling  method  of  embodying  it  among  Ameri 
can  poets  of  to-day." — Boston  Transcript. 


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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Great  Valley 

BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


This  book  by  the  author  of  "Spoon  River 
Anthology  "  represents  Mr.  Masters's  very  latest 
work,  and  while  it  employs  the  style  and  method 
of  its  now  famous  predecessor  it  marks  an  ad 
vance  over  that  both  in  treatment  and  thought. 
Here  Mr.  Masters  is  interpreting  the  country 
and  the  age.  Many  problems  are  touched  upon 
with  typical  Masters  incisiveness.  Many  char 
acters  are  introduced,  each  set  off  with  that 
penetrative  insight  into  human  nature  that  so 
distinguished  the  Anthology.  The  result  is  an 
epic  of  American  life,  a  worthy  successor  to 
Mr.  Masters's  first  volume. 


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THREE  RECENT   VOLUMES  Of  POETRY 

Toward  the  Gulf 

BY  EDGAR   LEE   MASTERS 


"  The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  ...  the  only  poet  with 
true  Americanism  in  his  bones." 

—  JOHN  COWPER  POWYS  in  New  York  Times. 

"  Toward  the  Gulf"  is  a  series  of  fearlessly  true  and  beautiful 
poems,  revealing  American  life  and  character  as  few  books  have 
done.  In  the  style  of  the  "  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  Mr.  Masters 
once  more  analyzes  grimly  but  truly  the  motive  of  human  conduct, 
and  skillfully  portrays  in  verse  form  the  life  and  thoughts  and 
ambitions  of  average  folk. 

Reincarnations 

BY  JAMES   STEPHENS 


Mr.  Stephens  has  here  collected  a  series  of  poems  in  part  trans 
lations,  in  part  imitations  or  expansions  01  old  Irish  material 
chiefly  after  Raftery,  O'Rahilly  and  O'Brunadair.  "  Some  of  the 
poems,"  he  savs,  "  owe  no  more  than  a  phrase,  a  line,  half  a  line  to 
the  Irish,  and  around  these  scraps  I  have  blown  a  bubble  of 
verse  and  made  my  poems." 

Lover's  Gift  and  Crossing 

BY   RABINDRANATH   TAGORE 


"  Contains,  we  should  say,  perhaps  the  very  best  work  so  far  of 
that  very  remarkable  man.  In  both  depth  and  breadth  of  vision, 
in  copiousness  of  imagery,  in  knowledge  of  the  human  soul,  and 
in  sheer  artistic  beaut v,  these  little  word  etchings  an-  unsurpassed 
in  current  literature  and  have  not  often  been  rivalled  in  any 
literature  or  at  any  time."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


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MASEFIELD'S  POEMS  AND  PLAYS  COLLECTED 

The  Poems  and  Plays  of  John  Mase- 
field: 

Volume  I,  Poems  Volume  II,  Plays 

With  Frontispiece  Portrait  of  Author  in  Photogravure 


This  is  what  many  people  have  long  been  desiring — a  col 
lected  edition  of  the  works  of  Masefield,  including  every 
thing  that  the  distinguished  English  author  has  published  in 
the  field  of  drama  and  verse. 

Here  will  be  found  The  Everlasting  Mercy  and  The  Widow 
in  the  Bye  Street,  The  Daffodil  Fields  and  other  of  the  great 
contributions  on  which  he  gained  his  first  popularity,  as  well 
those  shorter  pieces  which  have  heretofore  been  published 
only  in  limited  editions.  It  is  now  possible  for  the  Masefield 
admirer  to  possess  his  complete  writings  in  the  two  fields  in 
which  he  is  supreme. 

The  volumes  have  been  carefully  made,  and,  purely  from 
the  bookmaking  standpoint,  will  be  a  worth-while  addition 
to  any  library. 


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Escape  and  Fantasy 

BY  GEORGE  ROSTREVOR 

This  is  a  book  of  poems  written  by  a  man  who  has  a  delicate  fancy 
and  art.  Some  of  the  verse  is  suggestive  of  the  work  of  Ralph  Hodgson, 
whose  writings  have  made  such  a  profound  impression  hi  this  country 
and  in  England.  All  of  it  shows  marked  originality  and  power. 

BY  RALPH  HODGSON 

Recently  awarded  the  Edward  de  Polignac  prize  for  poetry,  Ralph 
Hodgson  is  already  well  known  in  this  country.  Those  who  have  read, 
in  the  little  yellow  chap  books  of  the  "Flying  Fame,"  "The  Song  of 
Honour,"  "Eve,"  "The  Bull,"  and  others  will  welcome  their  publica 
tion  in  this  American  edition. 

"  'Eve,'  .  .  .    The  most  fascinating  poem  of  our  time." — The  Nation. 


The  New  Day 


BY  SCUDDER  MIDDLETON 
Author  of  "Streets  and  Faces" 

Mr.  Middlemen's  earlier  book,  "Streets  and  Faces,"  was  considered 
by  the  New  York  Post  to  be  one  of  the  four  most  interesting  volumes 
of  poetry  published  in  America  during  1917.  "The  New  Day"  will 
perhaps  have  a  wider  appeal  to  poetry  lovers.  Here  are  poems  dealing 
with  the  present  hour  as  well  as  many  purely  imaginative  songs  and 
lyrics.  What  the  Chicago  Tribune  said  of  "Streets  and  Faces"  applies 
perhaps  equally  to  "The  New  Day":  "Here  is  exquisite  poetry  .  .  . 
the  angle  of  life  is  modern  yet  the  poetry  somehow  makes  you  feel  like 
"The  Golden  Treasury." 

The  Tree  of  Life 

BY  JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

This  is  a  collection  of  poems  setting  forth  a  love  experience.  Mr. 
Fletcher  is  already  favorably  known,  and  this  book  will  serve  still  further 
to  advance  his  reputation  and  to  strengthen  his  hold  upon  the  lovers  of 
distinguished  work  in  the  poetic  field. 


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The  Song  of  Three  Friends 

BY  JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 
Author  of  "The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass" 

In  this  narrative  poem  of  the  Upper  Missouri  River  country  in  the 
early  twenties,  John  G.  Neihardt  tells  with  a  forthright  simplicity  and 
with  an  economy  of  force,  rare  in  poetry  and  scarcely  possible  in  prose, 
an  historical  tale  of  three  trappers  and  boatmen;  of  their  love  for  each 
other;  of  their  adventures  in  a  savage  land;  and  of  the  fate  that  ulti 
mately  awoke  discord  among  them,  until  "each  went  stumbling  to  a 
bitter  end — a  threefold  doom." 

The  Wild  Swans  of  Coole  and  Other  Verses 

BY  WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 
Author  of  "The  Hour  Glass  and  Other  Plays,"  "Responsibilities,"  etc. 

This  is  Mr.  Yeats'  first  volume  of  verse  for  a  number  of  years, — a 
thoroughly  delightful  collection  in  the  distinguished  Irish  poet's  best 
manner. 

Leaves:  A  Book  of  Poems 

BY  HERMANN  HAGEDORN 
Author  of  "Poems  and  Ballads,"  "The  Heart  of  Youth,"  etc. 

This  is  a  volume  of  charming  poems  on  a  variety  of  themes,  some 
inspired  by  children,  the  family  and  friendship,  others  dealing  with 
subjects  connected  with  the  war,  democracy,  and  various  problems  of 
the  hour.  It  is  a  book  of  large  appeal — a  worthy  successor  to  Mr.  Hage- 
dorn's  previous  work. 


Can  Grande's  Castle 


BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Author  of  "Men,  Women  and  Ghosts,"  etc. 

"We  have  come  to  it — once  Poe  was  the  living  and  commanding 
poet,  whose  things  were  waited  for.  .  .  .  Now  we  watch  and  wait  for 
Any  Lowell's  poems.  Success  justifies  her  work.  Miss  Lowell  is  our 
poet — now,  between  fire  and  fire,  or,  in  plain  fact,  between  the  aesthetic 
passion  of  this  particular  epoch  of  letters  and  the  next.  Each  separate 
poem  in  "Can  Grande's  Castle"  is  a  real  and  true  poem  of  remarkable 
power — a  work  of  imagination,  a  moving  and  beautiful  thing." — The 
Boston  Transcript. 

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TACORE   ILLUSTRATED    BY    INDIAN   ARTISTS 


Gitanjali  and  Fruit  Gathering 

BY   RABINDRANATH   TAGORE 

Edition  de  Luxe.     With  8  illustrations  in  color  and  23 
in  black  and  white  by  Indian  artists 

Decorated  cloth,  izmo 

Here  are  presented  two  of  Mr.  Tagore's  most  popular 
books,  Gitanjali,  the  religious  poems  for  which  he  re 
ceived  the  Nobel  prize  in  literature,  and  Fruit  Gallicring, 
its  sequel.  The  combination  of  the  two  in  one  volume 
is  very  appropriate  and  the  illustrations  which  have 
been  prepared  not  only  beautify,  but  give  new  signifi 
cance  to  many  of  the  lines. 

No  lover  of  Tagore  will  feel  that  his  library  is  com 
plete  without  this  attractive  work. 

"Mr.  Tagore's  translations  are  of  trance-like  beauty." 

-  The  London  Alhenaum. 

"These  poems  are  representative  of  the  highest  de 
gree  of  culture,  and  yet  instinct  with  the  simplicity  and 
directness  of  the  dweller  on  the  soil."  —  New  York  Sun. 

".  .  .  it  is  the  essence  of  all  poetry  of  East  and  West 
alike  —  the  language  of  the  soul."  -  The  Indian  Mag 
azine  and  Review. 


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The  New  Poetry :  An  Anthology 

EDITED  BY  HARRIET  MONROE  AND 
ALICE  CORBIN  HENDERSON 

Editors  of  "Poetry" 


"...  One  should  be  grateful  for  the  volume.  It  is  not 
only  a  collection  of  much  of  the  best  of  'the  new  poetry';  it 
is  a  cumulative  and  accurate  definition  of  what  it  is." — 
Evening  Post. 

"There  is  no  other  collection  that  compares  with  this  an 
thology." — Review  of  Reviews. 

"It  is  difficult  to  overestimate  the  need  for  just  such  a  book, 
that  puts  in  handy  form  the  characteristic  part  of  the  mod 
ern  expression  in  poetry,  giving  a  juster  impression  of  its 
value  than  can  be  gained  from  much  desultory  reading  in  the 
publications  of  the  day.  ...  It  is  a  book  that  will  give 
great  enjoyment.  Compilers  are  to  be  congratulated  and 
thanked  for  what  they  have  done  for  us." — N.  Y.  Times 
Book  Review. 

"This  inclusive  anthology  of  recent  and  representative 
selections  should  meet  with  a  great  demand." — The  Globe. 


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Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts 
BY   AMY   LOWELL 

Fourth  edition,  cloth,  I2tno 

•' .  .  .  In  the  poem  which  gave  its  name  to  a  previous  volume,  '  Sword 
Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,'  Miss  Lowell  uttered  her  Credo  with  rare  sin 
cerity  and  passion.  Not  since  Elizabeth  Barrett's  *  Vision  of  Poets '  has 
there  been  such  a  confession  of  faith  in  the  mission  of  poetry,  such  a 
stern  compulsion  of  dedication  laid  upon  the  poet.  And  in  her  latest 
work  we  find  proof  that  she  has  lived  according  to  her  confession  and 
her  dedication  with  a  singleness  of  purpose  seldom  encountered  in  our 
fluid  time. 

"'Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts'  is  a  book  greatly  and  strenuously 
imagined.  .  .  .  Miss  Lowell  is  a  great  romantic.  .  .  .  She  belongs  to 
the  few  who,  in  every  generation,  feel  that  poetry  is  a  high  calling,  and 
who  press  undeviatingly  toward  the  mark.  They  are  few,  and  they  are 
frequently  lonely,  but  they  lead."  —  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 

"  .  .  'The  Hammers'  is  a  really  thrilling  piece  of  work;  the  skill 
with  which  it  is  divided  into  different  moods  and  motifs  is  something 
more  than  a  tour  de  force.  The  way  the  different  hammers  are  charac 
terized  and  given  voice,  the  varying  music  wrung  from  them  (from  the 
ponderous  banging  of  the  hammers  at  the  building  of  ti.e  '  Bellerophon ' 
to  their  light  tapping  as  they  pick  off  the  letters  of  Napoleon's  victories 
on  the  arch  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel),  the  emphasis  with  which  they 
reveal  a  whole  period  —  these  are  the  things  one  sees  rarely."  Louis 
UNTERMEYER  in  the  Chicago  Evening  I'o3t. 

"...  Beautiful  .  .  .  poetry  as  authentic  as  any  we  know.  It  is 
individual,  innocent  of  echo  and  imitation,  with  the  uniqueness  that 
comes  of  personal  genius.  .  .  .  Miss  Lowell  strives  to  get  into  words 
the  effects  of  the  painter's  palette  and  the  musician's  score.  And  life 
withal.  Does  she  succeed?  I  should  say  she  does,  and  the  first  poem 
in  this  b<x)k,  '  Patterns,'  is  a  brilliant,  aesthetic  achievement  in  a  com 
bination  of  story,  imagism,  and  symbolism.  '  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts' 
is  a  volume  that  contains  beautiful  poetry  for  all  readers  who  have  the 
root  of  the  mutter  in  them."  —  Reedy 's  Mirror ;  St.  Louis. 

"The  most  original  of  all  the  young  American  writers  of  to-day." 

Tht  Nfw  Age,  London. 

"  Br'.aa.it  is  the  term  for  '  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts '  —  praise  which 
holds  good  when  the  book  is  put  to  the  test  of  a  third  reading."  —  ED 
WARD  GARNKTT  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


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Can  Grande's  Castle 

Third  Edition 

"The  poems  in 'Can  Grande's  Castle 'are  only  four  in  number,  but  two  of 
them  .  .  .  touch  magnificence.  'The  Bronze  Horses'  has  a  larger  sweep 
than  Miss  Lowell  has  ever  attempted;  she  achieves  here  a  sense  of  magni 
tude  and  time  that  is  amazing.  .  .  .  Not  in  all  contemporary  poetry  has 
the  quality  of  balance  and  return  been  so  beautifully  illustrated."  —  Louis 
Untertneyer  in  The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry. 

'"  Can  Grande's  Castle '  challenges,  through  its  vividness  and  contagious 
zest  in  life  and  color,  an  unreluctant  admiration  ...  its  rare  union  of 
vigor  and  deftness,  precision  and  flexibility,  imaginative  grasp  and  clarity 
of  detail."  —  Professor  John  Livingston  Lowes  in  Convention  and  Revolt  in 
Poetry. 

" '  Sea-Blue  and  Blood-Red '  and  '  Guns  as  Keys :  and  the  Great  Gate 
Swings'  .  .  .  are  such  a  widening  of  barriers;  they  bring  into  literature 
an  element  imperceptible  in  poetry  before  ...  the  epic  of  modernity 
concentrated  into  thirty  pages.  .  .  .  Not  since  the  Elizabethans  has 
such  a  mastery  of  words  been  reached  in  English  .  .  .  one  had  never 
surmised  such  enchantment  could  have  been  achieved  with  words."  —  W. 
Bryher  in  The  Art  of  Amy  Lowell.  A  Critical  Appreciation.  London. 

''The  essential  element  of  Miss  Lowell's  poetry  is  vividness,  vividness 
and  a  power  to  concentrate  into  a  few  pages  the  spirit  of  an  age.  She 
indicates  perfectly  the  slightest  sense  of  atmosphere  in  a  period  or  a  city. 
.  .  .  But  the  spirit  of  these  poems  is  not  the  fashioning  of  pictures,  how 
ever  brilliant,  of  the  past;  it  is  the  re-creation  of  epic  moments  of  history 
made  real  as  this  present  through  her  own  individuality  and  vision."  — 
The  London  Nation. 

"  We  have  come  to  it  —  once  Poe  was  the  living  and  commanding  poet, 
whose  ;things  were  waited  for.  .  .  .  Now  we  watch  and  wait  for  Amy 
Lowell's  poems.  Success  justifies  her  work.  .  .  .  Each  separate  poem  in 
'  Can  Grande's  Castle '  is  a  real  and  true  poem  of  remarkable  power  —  a 
work  of  imagination,  a  moving  and  beautiful  thing."  —  Joseph  E.  Chamber 
lain  in  The  Boston  Transcript. 

"'Can  Grande's  Castle'  is,  in  the  opinion  of  the  present  reviewer,  not 
only  the  best  book  which  Miss  Lowell  has  so  far  written,  but  a  great  book 
perse.  .  .  .  It  is  a  frank  and  revealing  book.  It  deals  with  fundamentals. 
...  In  'Sea-Blue  and  Blood-Red'  we  have  the  old  story  of  Nelson  and 
'mad,  whole-hearted  Lady  Hamilton'  retold  in  a  style  that  dazzles  and 
excites  like  golden  standards  won  from  the  enemy  passing  in  procession 
with  the  sun  upon  them."  —  The  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 


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